WHITE  FANG 


"The    whole   pack,   on    haunches,   with    noses   pointed   skyward,   was 
howling  its  hunger  cry." 


THE  WORKS  OF 

JACK  LONDON 

WHITE  FANG 


THE  REVIEW  OF  REVIEWS  COMPANY 
NEW    YORK 


COPYRIGHT,   1905, 
BY  JACK  LONDON. 

COPYRIGHT,  1906, 
BY  THE  OUTING  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

COPYRIGHT,   1906, 
BY  THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


•35-23 


CONTENTS 


PART   ONE 
THE  WILD 

CHAPTER  PA6B 

I.     THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  MEAT        ......  3 

II.     THE  SHE-WOLF 15 

III.    THE  HUNGER  CRY 30 

PART  TWO 
BORN  OF  THE  WILD 

I.    THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  FANGS 49 

II.     THE  LAIR 64 

III.  THE  GRAY  CUB 76 

IV.  THE  WALL  OF  THE  WORLD 84 

V.    THE  LAW  OF  MEAT 101 

PART   THREE 
THE  GODS  OF  THE   WILD 

I.    THE  MAKERS  OF  FIRE 113 

II.    THE  BONDAGE 130 

III.  THE  OUTCAST     .                143 

IV.  THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  GODS 150 

V.    THE  COVENANT 158 

VI.    THE  FAMINE 171 

9 


CONTENTS 


PART  FOUR 
THE  SUPERIOR  GODS 

OHJLPTU  FA01 

I.    THE  ENEMY  OF  HIS  KIND        •        »•••.  187 

II.    THE  MAD  (JOD           ........  202 

if  I.    THE  REIGN  OF  HATE        .......  215 

IV.    THE  CLINGING  DEATH      .......  223 

V     THE  INDOMITABLE     ........  240 

VI.    THE  LOVE-MASTER   ,                                                       .  249 


PART  FIVE 
THE  TAME 

I.    THE  LONG  TRAIL 273 

II.    THE  SOUTHLAND        ......*•  281 

III.  THE  GOD'S  DOMAIN 291 

IV.  THE  CALL  OF  KIND <,       «        .  307 

V.    THE  SLEEPING  WOLF       .       «       •       .       *       *       -317 


PART  ONE 
THE  WILD 

CHAPTEB      I       , THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  MEAT 

CHAPTER    II THE  SHE-WOLF 

CHAPTEB  III THE  HUNGER  CRY 


WHITE  FANG 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   TRAIL   OF    THE   MEAT 

DARK  spruce  forest  frowned  on  either  side  the 
frozen  waterway.  The  trees  had  been  stripped  by 
a  recent  wind  of  their  white  covering  of  frost,  and 
they  seemed  to  lean  toward  each  other,  black  and 
ominous,  in  the  fading  light.  A  vast  silence  reigned 
over  the  land.  The  land  itself  was  a  desolation,  life 
less,  without  movement,  so  lone  and  cold  that  the 
spirit  of  it  was  not  even  that  of  sadness.  There  was 
a  hint  in  it  of  laughter,  but  of  a  laughter  more  ter 
rible  than  any  sadness — a  laughter  that  was  mirth 
less  as  the  smile  of  the  Sphinx,  a  laughter  cold  as  the 
frost  and  partaking  of  the  grimness  of  infallibility. 
It  was  the  masterful  and  incommunicable  wisdom  of 
eternity  laughing  at  the  futility  of  life  and  the  effort 
of  life.  It  was  the  Wild,  the  savage,  frozen-hearted 
Northland  Wild. 

But  there  was  life,  abroad  in  the  land  and  defiant. 
Down  the  frozen  waterway  toiled  a  string  of  wolfish 
dogs.  Their  bristly  fur  was  rimed  with  frost. 

3 


4  WHITE  FANG 

Their  breath  froze  in  the  air  as  it  left  their  mouths, 
spouting  forth  in  spumes  of  vapor  that  settled  upon 
the  hair  of  their  bodies  and  formed  into  crystals  of 
frost.  Leather  harness  was  on  the  dogs,  and  leather 
traces  attached  them  to  a  sled  which  dragged  along 
behind.  The  sled  was  without  runners.  It  was 
made  of  stout  birch-bark,  and  its  full  surface  rested 
on  the  snow.  The  front  end  of  the  sled  was  turned 
up,  like  a  scroll  in  order  to  force  down  and  under  the 
bore  of  soft  snow  that  surged  like  a  wave  before  it. 
On  the  sled,  securely  lashed,  was  a  long  and  narrow 
oblong  box.  There  were  other  things  on  the  sled — 
blankets,  an  axe,  and  a  coffee-pot  and  frying-pan; 
bi^t  prominent,  occupying  most  of  the  space,  was  the 
long  and  narrow  oblong  box. 

In  advance  of  the  dogs,  on  wide  snowshoes,  toiled 
a  man.  At  the  rear  of  the  sled  toiled  a  second  man. 
On  the  sled,  in  the  box,  lay  a  third  man  whose  toil 
was  over, — a  man  whom  the  Wild  had  conquered  and 
beaten  down  until  he  would  never  move  nor  strug 
gle  again.  It  is  not  the  way  of  the  Wild  to  like 
movement.  Life  is  an  offence  to  it,  for  life  is  move 
ment;  and  the  Wild  aims  always  to  destroy  move 
ment.  It  freezes  the  water  to  prevent  it  running 
to  the  sea;  it  drives  the  sap  out  of  the  trees  till  they 
are  frozen  to  their  mighty  hearts;  and  most  fe 
rociously  and  terribly  of  all  does  the  Wild  harry 
and  crush  into  submission  man — man,  who  is  the 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  MEAT  5 

most  restless  of  life,  ever  in  revolt  against  the  dic 
tum  that  all  movement  must  in  the  end  come  to  the 
cessation  of  movement. 

But  at  front  and  rear,  unawed  and  indomitable, 
toiled  the  two  men  who  were  not  yet  dead.  Their 
bodies  were  covered  with  fur  and  soft-tanned  leather. 
Eyelashes  and  cheeks  and  lips  were  so  coated  with 
the  crystals  from  their  frozen  breath  that  their 
faces  were  not  discernible.  This  gave  them  the 
seeming  of  ghostly  masques,  undertakers  in  a  spec 
tral  world  at  the  funeral  of  some  ghost.  But  under 
it  all  they  were  men,  penetrating  the  land  of  desola 
tion  and  mockery  and  silence,  puny  adventurers  bent 
on  colossal  adventure,  pitting  themselves  against  *he 
might  of  a  world  as  remote  and  alien  and  pulseless 
as  the  abysses  of  space. 

They  travelled  on  without  speech,  saving  their 
breath  for  the  work  of  their  bodies.  On  every  side 
was  the  silence,  pressing  upon  them  with  a  tangible 
presence.  It  affected  their  minds  as  the  many  at 
mospheres  of  deep  water  affect  the  body  of  the  diver. 
It  crushed  them  with  the  weight  of  unending  vast- 
ness  and  unalterable  decree.  It  crushed  them  into 
the  remotest  recesses  of  their  own  minds,  pressing 
out  of  them,  like  juices  from  the  grape,  all  the  false 
ardors  and  exaltations  and  undue  self -values  of  the 
human  soul,  until  they  perceived  themselves  finite 
and  small,  specks  and  motes,  moving  with  weak  cun- 


6  WHITE  FANG 

ning  and  little  wisdom  amidst  the  play  and  inter 
play  of  the  great  blind  elements  and  forces. 

An  hour  went  by,  and  a  second  hour.  The  pale 
light  of  the  short  sunless  day  was  beginning  to 
fade,  when  a  faint  far  cry  arose  on  the  still  air.  It 
soared  upward  with  a  swift  rush,  till  it  reached  its 
topmost  note,  where  it  persisted,  palpitant  and 
tense,  and  then  slowly  died  away.  It  might  have 
been  a  lost  soul  wailing,  had  it  not  been  invested 
with  a  certain  sad  fierceness  and  hungry  eagerness. 
The  front  man  turned  his  head  until  his  eyes  met 
the  eyes  of  the  man  behind.  And  then,  across  the 
narrow  oblong  box,  each  nodded  to  the  other. 

A  second  cry  arose,  piercing  the  silence  with 
needlelike  shrillness.  Both  men  located  the  sound. 
It  was  to  the  rear,  somewhere  in  the  snow  expanse 
they  had  just  traversed.  A  third  and  answering  cry 
arose,  also  to  the  rear  and  to  the  left  of  the  second 
cry. 

"They're  after  us,  Bill,"  said  the  man  at  the 
front. 

His  voice  sounded  hoarse  and  unreal,  and  he  had 
spoken  with  apparent  effort. 

"Meat  is  scarce,"  answered  his  comrade.  "I 
ain't  seen  a  rabbit  sign  for  days." 

Thereafter  they  spoke  no  more,  though  their  ears 
were  keen  for  the  hunting-cries  that  continued  to 
rise  behind  them. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  MEAT  7 

At  the  fall  of  darkness  they  swung  the  dogs  into 
a  cluster  of  spruce  trees  on  the  edge  of  the  water 
way  and  made  a  camp.  The  coffin,  at  the  side  of 
the  fire,  served  for  seat  and  table.  The  wolf-dogs, 
clustered  on  the  far  side  of  the  fire,  snarled  and  bick 
ered  among  themselves,  but  evinced  no  inclination 
to  stray  off  into  the  darkness. 

* '  Seems  to  me,  Henry,  they  're  stayin '  remarkable 
close  to  camp,"  Bill  commented. 

Henry,  squatting  over  the  fire  and  settling  the  pot 
of  coffee  with  a  piece  of  ice,  nodded.  Nor  did  he 
speak  till  he  had  taken  his  seat  on  the  coffin  and  be 
gun  to  eat. 

' i They  know  where  their  hides  is  safe,"  he  said. 
"They'd  sooner  eat  grub  than  be  grub.  They're 
pretty  wise,  them  dogs." 

Bill  shook  his  head.     "Oh,  I  don't  know." 

His  comrade  looked  at  him  curiously.  "First 
time  I  ever  heard  you  say  anythin'  about  their  not 
bein'  wise." 

"Henry,"  said  the  other,  munching  with  delibera 
tion  the  beans  he  was  eating,  "did  you  happen  to 
notice  the  way  them  dogs  kicked  up  when  I  was 
a-feedin'  'em?" 

"They  did  cut  up  more'n  usual,"  Henry  acknowl 
edged. 

"How  many  dogs  've  we  got,  Henry?" 

"Six." 


8  WHITE  FANG 

"Well,  Henry  .  .  ."  Bill  stopped  for  a  moment, 
in  order  that  his  words  might  gain  greater  signifi 
cance.  "As  I  was  savin',  Henry,  we've  got  six 
dogs.  I  took  six  fish  out  of  the  bag.  I  gave  one 
fish  to  each  dog,  an',  Henry,  I  was  one  fish  short." 

"You  counted  wrong." 

<  <  \ye  >ve  got  six  dogs, ' '  the  other  reiterated  dispas 
sionately.  "I  took  out  six  fish.  One  Ear  didn't  get 
no  fish.  I  come  back  to  the  bag  afterward  an'  got 
'm  his  fish." 

"We've  only  got  six  dogs,"  Henry  said. 

"Henry,"  Bill  went  on,  "I  won't  say  they  was 
all  dogs,  but  there  was  seven  of  'm  that  got  fish." 

Henry  stopped  eating  to  glance  across  the  fire  and 
count  the  dogs. 

"There's  only  six  now,"  he  said. 

' '  I  saw  the  other  one  run  off  across  the  snow, ' '  Bill 
announced  with  cool  positiveness.  "I  saw  seven." 

His  comrade  looked  at  him  commiseratingly,  and 
said,  "I'll  be  almighty  glad  when  this  trip's  over." 

"What  d'ye  mean  by  that?"  Bill  demanded. 

"I  mean  that  this  load  of  ourn  is  gettin'  on  your 
nerves,  an'  that  you're  beginnin'  to  see  things." 

"I  thought  of  that,"  Bill  answered  gravely. 
"An'  so,  when  I  saw  it  run  off  across  the  snow,  I 
looked  in  the  snow  an'  saw  its  tracks.  Then  I 
counted  the  dogs  an '  there  was  still  six  of  'em.  The 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  MEAT  9 

tracks  is  there  in  the  snow  now.  D'ye  want  to  look 
at  'em?  I'll  show  'm  to  you." 

Henry  did  not  reply,  but  munched  on  in  silence, 
until,  the  meal  finished,  he  topped  it  with  a  final 
cup  of  coffee.  He  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back 
of  his  hand  and  said: 

"Then  you're  thinkin'  as  it  was — " 

A  long  wailing  cry,  fiercely  sad,  from  somewhere 
in  the  darkness,  had  interrupted  him.  He  stopped 
to  listen  to  it,  then  he  finished  his  sentence  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand  toward  the  sound  of  the  cry,  " — one 
of  them?" 

Bill  nodded.  "I'd  a  blame  sight  sooner  think 
that  than  anything  else.  You  noticed  yourself  the 
row  the  dogs  made." 

Cry  after  cry,  and  answering  cries,  were  turning 
the  silence  into  a  bedlam.  From  every  side  the  cries 
arose,  and  the  dogs  betrayed  their  fear  by  huddling 
together  and  so  close  to  the  fire  that  their  hair  was 
scorched  by  the  heat.  Bill  threw  on  more  wood, 
before  lighting  his  pipe. 

"I'm  thinkin'  you're  down  in  the  mouth  some," 
Henry  said. 

"Henry  ..."  He  sucked  meditatively  at  his 
pipe  for  some  time  before  he  went  on.  "Henry,  I 
was  a-thinkin'  what  a  blame  sight  luckier  he  is  than 
you  an'  me '11  ever  be." 


10  WHITE  FANG 

He  indicated  the  third  person  by  a  downward 
thrust  of  the  thumb  to  the  box  on  which  they  sat. 

"You  an'  me,  Henry,  when  we  die,  we'll  be  lucky 
if  we  get  enough  stones  over  our  carcases  to  keep  the 
dogs  off  of  us." 

"But  we  ain't  got  people  an'  money  an'  all  the 
rest,  like  him,"  Henry  rejoined.  "Long-distance 
funerals  is  some  thin'  you  an'  me  can't  exactly  af 
ford." 

"What  gets  me,  Henry,  is  what  a  chap  like  this, 
that's  a  lord  or  something  in  his  own  country,  and 
that's  never  had  to  bother  about  grub  nor  blankets, 
why  he  comes  a-buttin '  round  the  God-forsaken  ends 
of  the  earth — that 's  what  I  can 't  exactly  see. ' ' 

"He  might  have  lived  to  a  ripe  old  age  if  he'd 
stayed  to  home, ' '  Henry  agreed. 

Bill  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  changed  his 
mind.  Instead,  he  pointed  toward  the  wall  of  dark 
ness  that  pressed  about  them  from  every  side. 
There  was  no  suggestion  of  form  in  the  utter  black 
ness  ;  only  could  be  seen  a  pair  of  eyes  gleaming  like 
live  coals.  Henry  indicated  with  his  head  a  second 
pair,  and  a  third.  A  circle  of  the  gleaming  eyes  had 
drawn  about  their  camp.  Now  and  again  a  pair 
of  eyes  moved,  or  disappeared  to  appear  again  a 
moment  later. 

The  unrest  of  the  dogs  had  been  increasing,  and 
they  stampeded,  in  a  surge  of  sudden  fear,  to  the 


THE  TKAJL  OF  THE  MEAT  11 

near  side  of  the  fire,  cringing  and  crawling  about 
the  legs  of  the  men.  In  the  scramble  one  of  the  dogs 
had  been  overturned  on  the  edge  of  the  fire,  and  it 
had  yelped  with  pain  and  fright  as  the  smell  of  its 
singed  coat  possessed  the  air.  The  commotion 
caused  the  circle  of  eyes  to  shift  restlessly  for  a  mo 
ment  and  even  to  withdraw  a  bit,  but  it  settled  down 
again  as  the  dogs  became  quiet. 

" Henry,  it's  a  blame  misfortune  to  be  out  of  am 
munition.  ' ' 

Bill  had  finished  his  pipe,  and  was  helping  his 
companion  spread  the  bed  of  fur  and  blanket  upon 
the  spruce  boughs  which  he  had  laid  over  the  snow 
before  supper.  Henry  gmnted,  and  began  unlacing 
his  moccasins. 

1 '  How  many  cartridges  did  you  say  you  had  left ! ' ' 
he  asked. 

" Three, "  came  the  answer.  "An*  I  wisht  'twas 
three  hundred.  Then  I'd  show  'em  what  for,  damn 
'em!" 

He  shook  his  fist  angrily  at  the  gleaming  eyes,  and 
began  securely  to  prop  his  moccasins  before  the 
fire. 

"  An'  I  wisht  this  cold  snap'd  break,"  he  went  on. 
1  '  It's  ben  fifty  below  for  two  weeks  now.  An'  I 
wisht  I'd  never  started  on  this  trip,  Henry.  I  don't 
like  the  looks  of  it.  I  don't  feel  right,  somehow. 
An'  while  I'm  wishin',  I  wisht  the  trip  was  over  an' 


12  WHITE  FANG 

done  with,  an'  you  an'  me  a-sittin'  by  the  fire  in  Fort 
McGurry  just  about  now  an'  playin'  cribbage — 
that's  what  I  wisht." 

Henry  grunted  and  crawled  into  bed.  As  he 
dozed  off  he  was  aroused  by  his  comrade's 
voice. 

"Say,  Henry,  that  other  one  that  come  in  an'  got 
a  fish — why  didn't  the  dogs  pitch  into  it?  That's 
what's  botherin'  me." 

"You're  botherin'  too  much,  Bill,"  came  the 
sleepy  response.  "You  was  never  like  this  before. 
You  jes'  shut  up  now,  an'  go  to  sleep,  an'  you'll  be 
all  hunkydory  in  the  mornin '.  Your  stomach 's  sour, 
that's  what's  botherin'  you." 

The  men  slept,  breathing  heavily,  side  by  side, 
under  the  one  covering.  The  fire  died  down,  and  the 
gleaming  eyes  drew  closer  the  circle  they  had  flung 
about  the  camp.  The  dogs  clustered  together  in 
fear,  now  and  again  snarling  menacingly  as  a  pair 
of  eyes  drew  close.  Once  their  uproar  became  so 
loud  that  Bill  woke  up.  He  got  out  of  bed  carefully, 
so  as  not  to  disturb  the  sleep  of  his  comrade,  and 
threw  more  wood  on  the  fire.  As  it  began  to  flame 
up,  the  circle  of  eyes  drew  farther  back.  He  glanced 
casually  at  the  huddling  dogs.  He  rubbed  his  eyes 
and  looked  at  them  more  sharply.  Then  he  crawled 
back  into  the  blankets. 

"Henry,"  he  said.    "Oh,  Henry." 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  MEAT  13 

Henry  groaned  as  he  passed  from  sleep  to  waking, 
and  demanded,  "What's  wrong  now!" 

' '  Nothin ', ' '  came  the  answer ;  ' '  only  there 's  seven 
of  'em  again.  I  just  counted." 

Henry  acknowledged  receipt  of  the  information 
with  a  grunt  that  slid  into  a  snore  as  he  drifted  back 
into  sleep. 

In  the  morning  it  was  Henry  who  awoke  first  and 
routed  his  companion  out  of  bed.  Daylight  was  yet 
three  hours  away,  though  it  was  already  six  o'clock; 
and  in  the  darkness  Henry  went  about  preparing 

breakfast,  while  Bill  rolled  the  blankets  and  made 

• 

the  sled  ready  for  lashing. 

"Say,  Henry,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "how  many 
dogs  did  you  say  we  had?" 

"Six." 

"Wrong,"  Bill  proclaimed  triumphantly. 

"Seven  again!"  Henry  queried. 

"No,  five;  one's  gone." 

"The  hell!"  Henry  cried  in  wrath,  leaving  the 
cooking  to  come  and  count  the  dogs. 

"You're  right,  Bill,"  he  concluded.  "Fatty's 
gone. ' ' 

"An'  he  went  like  greased  lightnin'  once  he  got 
started.  Couldn't  Ve  seen  'm  for  smoke." 

"No  chance  at  all,"  Henry  concluded.  "They 
jes'  swallowed  'm  alive.  I  bet  he  was  yelpin'  as  he 
went  down  their  throats,  damn  'em!" 


14  WHITE  FASG 

"He  always  was  a  fool  dog,"  said  Bill. 

"But  no  fool  dog  ought  to  be  fool  enough  to  go  off 
an'  commit  suicide  that  way."  He  looked  over  the 
remainder  of  the  team  with  a  speculative  eye  that 
summed  up  instantly  the  salient  traits  of  each  an 
imal.  "  I  bet  none  of  the  others  would  do  it. ' ' 

"Couldn't  drive  'em  away  from  the  fire  with  a 
club,"  Bill  agreed.  "I  always  did  think  there  was 
somethin'  wrong  with  Fatty,  anyway." 

And  this  was  the  epitaph  of  a  dead  dog  on  the 
Northland  trail — less  scant  than  the  epitaph  of  many 
another  dog,  of  many  a  man. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   SHE-WOLF 

BREAKFAST  eaten  and  the  slim  camp-outfit  lashed 
to  the  sled,  the  men  turned  their  backs  on  the  cheery 
fire  and  launched  out  into  the  darkness.  At  once 
began  to  rise  the  cries  that  were  fiercely  sad — cries 
that  called  through  the  darkness  and  cold  to  one 
another  and  answered  back.  Conversation  ceased. 
Daylight  came  at  nine  o'clock.  At  midday  the  sky 
to  the  south  warmed  to  rose-color,  and  marked  where 
the  bulge  of  the  earth  intervened  between  the 
meridian  sun  and  the  northern  world.  But  the  rose- 
color  swiftly  faded.  The  gray  light  of  day  that  re 
mained  lasted  until  three  o'clock,  when  it,  too,  faded, 
and  the  pall  of  the  Arctic  night  descended  upon  the 
lone  and  silent  land. 

As  darkness  came  on,  the  hunting-cries  to  right 
and  left  and  rear  drew  closer — so  close  that  more 
than  once  they  sent  surges  of  fear  through  the  toiling 
dogs,  throwing  them  into  short-lived  panics. 

At  the  conclusion  of  one  such  panic,  when  he  and 
Henry  had  got  the  dogs  back  in  the  traces,  Bill  said : 

"I  wisht  they'd  strike  game  somewheres,  an'  go 
away  an '  leave  us  alone. ' ' 

15 


16  WHITE  FANG 

*  '  They  do  get  on  the  nerves  horrible, ' '  Henry  sym 
pathized. 

They  spoke  no  more  until  camp  was  made. 

Henry  was  bending  over  and  adding  ice  to  the 
bubbling  pot  of  beans  when  he  was  startled  by  the 
sound  of  a  blow,  an  exclamation  from  Bill,  and  a 
sharp  snarling  cry  of  pain  from  among  the  dogs. 
He  straightened  up  in  time  to  see  a  dim  form  disap 
pearing  across  the  snow  into  the  shelter  of  the  dark. 
Then  he  saw  Bill,  standing  amid  the  dogs,  half  tri 
umphant,  half  crest-fallen,  in  one  hand  a  stout  club, 
in  the  other  the  tail  and  part  of  the  body  of  a  sun- 
cured  salmon. 

"It  got  half  of  it,"  he  announced;  "but  I  got  a 
whack  at  it  jes'  the  same.  D'ye  hear  it  squeal?" 

"What'd  it  look  like?"  Henry  asked. 

"Couldn't  see.  But  it  had  four  legs  an'  a  mouth 
an'  hair  an'  looked  like  any  dog." 

"Must  be  a  tame  wolf,  I  reckon." 

"It's  damned  tame,  whatever  it  is,  comin'  in  here 
at  feedin'  time  an'  gettin'  its  whack  of  fish." 

That  night,  when  supper  was  finished  and  they 
sat  on  the  oblong  box  and  pulled  at  their  pipes,  the 
circle  of  gleaming  eyes  drew  in  even  closer  than 
before. 

"I  wisht  they'd  spring  up  a  bunch  of  moose  or 
something  an'  go  away  an'  leave  us  alone,"  Bill 
said. 


THE  SHE-WOLF  17 

Henry  grunted  with  an  intonation  that  was  not 
all  sympathy,  and  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  sat 
on  in  silence,  Henry  staring  at  the  fire,  and  Bill  at 
the  circle  of  eyes  that  burned  in  the  darkness  just 
beyond  the  firelight. 

"I  wisht  we  was  pullin*  into  McGurry  right 
now, ' '  he  began  again. 

"Shut  up  your  wishin'  an*  your  croakin',"  Henry 
burst  out  angrily.  "Your  stomach's  sour.  That's 
what's  ailin'  you.  Swallow  a  spoonful  of  sody,  an' 
you'll  sweeten  up  wonderful  an'  be  more  pleasant 
company. ' ' 

In  the  morning,  Henry  was  aroused  by  fervid  blas 
phemy  that  proceeded  from  the  mouth  of  Bill. 
Henry  propped  himself  up  on  an  elbow  and  looked 
to  see  his  comrade  standing  among  the  dogs  beside 
the  replenished  fire,  his  arms  raised  in  objurgation, 
his  face  distorted  with  passion. 

"Hello!"  Henry  called.     "What's  up  now?" 

"Frog's  gone,"  came  the  answer. 

"No." 

"I  tell  you  yes." 

Henry  leaped  out  of  the  blankets  and  to  the  dogs. 
He  counted  them  with  care,  and  then  joined  his 
partner  in  cursing  the  powers  of  the  Wild  that  had 
robbed  them  of  another  dog. 

"Frog  was  the  strongest  dog  of  the  bunch,"  Bill 
pronounced  finally. 


18  WHITE  FANG 

"An*  he  was  no  fool  dog  neither,"  Henry  added. 

And  so  was  recorded  the  second  epitaph  in  two 
days. 

A  gloomy  breakfast  was  eaten,  and  the  four  re 
maining  dogs  were  harnessed  to  the  sled.  The  day 
was  a  repetition  of  the  days  that  had  gone  before. 
The  men  toiled  without  speech  across  the  face  of  the 
frozen  world.  The  silence  was  unbroken  save  by  the 
cries  of  their  pursuers,  that,  unseen,  hung  upon  their 
rear.  With  the  coming  of  night  in  the  mid-after 
noon,  the  cries  sounded  closer  as  the  pursuers  drew 
in  according  to  their  custom;  and  the  dogs  grew 
excited  and  frightened,  and  were  guilty  of  panics 
that  tangled  the  traces  and  further  depressed  tho 
two  men. 

' '  There,  that  '11  fix  you  fool  critters,  "Bill  said  witfr 
satisfaction  that  night,  standing  erect  at  completion 
of  his  task. 

Henry  left  his  cooking  to  come  and  see.  Not  only 
had  his  partner  tied  the  dogs  up,  but  he  had  tied 
them,  after  the  Indian  fashion,  with  sticks.  About 
the  neck  of  each  dog  he  had  fastened  a  leather  thong. 
To  this,  and  so  close  to  the  neck  that  the  dog  could 
not  get  his  teeth  to  it,  he  had  tied  a  stout  stick  four 
or  five  feet  in  length.  .The  other  end  of  the  stick,  in 
turn,  was  made  fast  to  a  stake  in  the  ground  by 
means  of  a  leather  thong.  The  dog  was  unable  to 
gnaw  through  the  leather  at  his  own  end  of  the  stick. 


THE  SHE-WOLF  19 

The  stick  prevented  him  from  getting  at  the  leather 
that  fastened  the  other  end. 

Henry  nodded  his  head  approvingly. 

' ' It's  the  only  contraption  that'll  ever  hold  One 
Ear,"  he  said.  "He  can  gnaw  through  leather  as 
clean  as  a  knife  an'  jes'  about  half  as  quick.  They 
all  '11  be  here  in  the  mornin'  hunkydory." 

"You  jes'  bet  they  will,"  Bill  affirmed.  "If  one 
of  'em  turns  up  missin',  I'll  go  without  my  coffee." 

"They  jes'  know  we  ain't  loaded  to  kill,"  Henry 
remarked  at  bed-time,  indicating  the  gleaming  circle 
that  hemmed  them  in.  "  If  we  could  put  a  couple  of 
shots  into  'em,  they'd  be  more  respectful.  They 
come  closer  every  night.  Get  the  firelight  out  of 
your  eyes  an'  look  hard — there!  Did  you  see  that 
one?" 

For  some  time  the  two  men  amused  themselves 
with  watching  the  movement  of  vague  forms  on  the 
edge  of  the  firelight.  By  looking  closely  and  stead 
ily  at  where  a  pair  of  eyes  burned  in  the  darkness, 
the  form  of  the  animal  would  slowly  take  shape. 
They  could  even  see  these  forms  move  at  times. 

A  sound  among  the  dogs  attracted  the  men's  atten 
tion.  One  Ear  was  uttering  quick,  eager  whines, 
lunging  at  the  length  of  his  stick  toward  the  dark 
ness,  and  desisting  now  and  again  in  order  to  make 
frantic  attacks  on  the  stick  with  his  teeth. 

"Look  at  that,  Bill,"  Henry  whispered. 


20  WHITE  FANG 

Full  into  the  firelight,  with  a  stealthy,  sidelong 
movement,  glided  a  doglike  animal.  It  moved  with 
commingled  mistrust  and  daring,  cautiously  observ 
ing  the  men,  its  attention  fixed  on  the  dogs.  One 
Ear  strained  the  full  length  of  the  stick  toward  the 
intruder  a-nd  whined  with  eagerness. 

"That  fool  One  Ear  don't  seem  scairt  much,"  Bill 
said  in  a  low  tone. 

"It's  a  she-wolf, "  Henry  whispered  back,  "an* 
that  accounts  for  Fatty  an'  Frog.  She's  the  decoy 
for  the  pack.  She  draws  out  the  dog  an'  then  all 
the  rest  pitches  in  an'  eats  'm  up." 

The  fire  crackled.  A  log  fell  apart  with  a  loud 
spluttering  noise.  At  the  sound  of  it  the  strange 
animal  leaped  back  into  the  darkness. 

"Henry,  I'm  a-thinkin',"  Bill  announced. 

"Thinkin'  what?" 

"I'm  a-thinkin'  that  was  the  one  I  lambasted  with 
the  club." 

"Ain't  the  slightest  doubt  in  the  world,"  was 
Henry's  response. 

"An'  right  here  I  want  to  remark,"  Bill  went  on, 
"that  that  animal's  familyarity  with  campfires  is 
suspicious  an '  immoral. ' ' 

"It  knows  for  certain  more'n  a  self-respectin ' 
wolf  ought  to  know, ' '  Henry  agreed.  * '  A  wolf  that 
knows  enough  to  come  in  with  the  dogs  at  feedin' 
time  has  had  experiences." 


THE  SHE-WOLF  21 

"01*  Villan  had  a  dog  once  that  run  away  with 
the  wolves, "  Bill  cogitated  aloud.  "I  ought  to 
know.  I  shot  it  out  of  the  pack  in  a  moose  pasture 
over  on  Little  Stick.  An'  OP  Villan  cried  like  a 
baby.  Hadn't  seen  it  for  three  years,  he  said.  Ben 
with  the  wolves  all  that  time." 

"I  reckon  you've  called  the  turn,  Bill.  That 
wolf's  a  dog,  an'  it's  eaten  fish  many 's  the  time  from 
the  hand  of  man." 

"An'  if  I  get  a  chance  at  it,  that  wolf  that's  a 
dog '11  be  jes'  meat,"  Bill  declared.  "We  can't  af 
ford  to  lose  no  more  animals." 

"But  you've  only  got  three  cartridges,"  Henry 
objected. 

"I'll  wait  for  a  dead  sure  shot,"  was  the  reply. 

In  the  morning  Henry  renewed  the  fire  and  cooked 
breakfast  to  the  accompaniment  of  his  partner's 
snoring. 

"You  was  sleepin'  jes'  too  comfortable  for  any- 
thin',"  Henry  told  him,  as  he  routed  him  out  for 
breakfast.  "I  hadn't  the  heart  to  rouse  you." 

Bill  began  to  eat  sleepily.  He  noticed  that  his  cup 
was  empty  and  started  to  reach  for  the  pot.  But 
the  pot  was  beyond  arm's  length  and  beside  Henry. 

"Say,  Henry,"  he  chided  gently,  "ain't  you  for 
got  some  thin'?" 

Henry  looked  about  with  great  carefulness  and 
shook  his  head.  Bill  held  up  the  empty  cup. 


22  WHITE  FANG 

"You  don't  get  no  coffee,"  Henry  announced. 

"Ain't  run  out?"  Bill  asked  anxiously. 

"Nope." 

"Ain't  thinkin'  it'll  hurt  my  digestion?" 

"Nope." 

A  flush  of  angry  blood  pervaded  Bill's  face. 

"Then  it's  jes'  warm  an'  anxious  I  am  to  be 
hearin'  you  explain  yourself,"  he  said. 

"Spanker's  gone,"  Henry  answered. 

Without  haste,  with  the  air  of  one  resigned  to  mis 
fortune,  Bill  turned  his  head,  and  from  where  he 
sat  counted  the  dogs. 

"How'd  it  happen?"  he  asked  apathetically. 

Henry  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Don't  know. 
Unless  One  Ear  gnawed  'm  loose.  He  couldn't 
a-done  it  himself,  that's  sure." 

"The  darned  cuss."  Bill  spoke  gravely  and 
slowly,  with  no  hint  of  the  anger  that  was  raging 
within.  '  '  Jes '  because  he  couldn  't  chew  himself 
loose,  he  chews  Spanker  loose." 

"Well,  Spanker's  troubles  is  over,  anyway;  I 
guess  he's  digested  by  this  time  an'  cavortin'  over 
the  landscape  in  the  bellies  of  twenty  different 
wolves,"  was  Henry's,  epitaph  on  this,  the  latest 
lost  dog.  *  '  Have  some  coffee,  Bill. ' ' 

But  Bill  shook. his  head. 

'  '  Go  on, ' '  Henry  pleaded,  elevating  the  pot. 

Bill  shoved  his  cup  aside.    "I'll  be  ding-dong- 


THE  b  HE- WOLF  23 

danged  if  I  do.  I  said  I  wouldn  't  if  ary  dog  turned 
up  missin',  an'  I  won't." 

44  It's  darn  good  coffee,"  Henry  said  enticingly. 

But  Bill  was  stubborn,  and  'he  ate  a  dry  breakfast, 
washed  down  with  mumbled  curses  at  One  Ear  for 
the  trick  he  had  played. 

"I'll  tie  'em  up  out  of  reach  of  each  other  to 
night,"  Bill  said,  as  they  took  the  trail. 

They  had  travelled  little  more  than  a  hundred 
yards,  when  Henry,  who  was  in  front,  bent  down  and 
picked  up  something  with  which  his  snowshoe  had 
collided.  It  was  dark,  and  he  could  see  it,  but  he 
recognized  it  by  the  touch.  He  flung  it  back,  so 
that  it  struck  the  sled  and  bounced  along  until  it 
fetched  up  on  Bill's  snowshoes. 

"Mebbe  you'll  need  that  in  your  business,"  Henry 
said. 

Bill  uttered  an  exclamation.  It  was  all  that  was 
left  of  Spanker — the  stick  with  which  he  had  been 
tied. 

4 'They  ate  'm  hide  an'  all,"  Bill  announced. 
"The  stick's  as  clean  as  a  whistle.  They've  ate  the 
leather  off  en  both  ends.  They're  damn  hungry, 
Henry,  an'  they'll  have  you  an'  me  guessin'  before 
this  trip's  over." 

Henry  laughed  defiantly.  "I  ain't  been  trailed 
this  way  by  wolves  before,  but  I've  gone  through  a 
whole  lot  worse  an'  kept  my  health.  Takes  more'n 


24  WHITE  FANG 

a  handful  of  them  pesky  critters  to  d*o  for  yours 
truly,  Bill,  my  son." 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  Bill  muttered 
ominously. 

"Well,  you'll  know  all  right  when  we  pull  into 
McGurry. ' ' 

"I  ain't  feelin'  special  enthusiastic,"  Bill  per 
sisted. 

"You're  off  color,  that's  what's  the  matter  with 
you,"  Henry  dogmatized.  "What  you  need  is 
quinine,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  dose  you  up  stiff  as  soon 
as  we  make  McGurry." 

Bill  grunted  his  disagreement  with  the  diagnosis, 
and  lapsed  into  silence.  The  day  was  like  all  the 
days.  Light  came  at  nine  o'clock.  At  twelve 

0  'clock  the  southern  horizon  was  warmed  by  the  un 
seen  sun ;  and  then  began  the  cold  gray  of  afternoon 
that  would  merge,  three  hours  later,  into  night. 

It  was  just  after  the  sun's  futile  effort  to  appear, 
that  Bill  slipped  the  rifle  from  under  the  sled-lash 
ings  and  said: 

"You  keep  right  on,  Henry,  I'm  goin'  to  see  what 

1  can  see." 

"You'd  better  stick  by  the  sled,"  his  partner  pro 
tested.  "You've  only  got  three  cartridges,  an' 
there's  no  tellin'  what  might  happen." 

"Who's  croakin'  now?"  Bill  demanded  trium 
phantly. 


THE  SHE-WOLF  25 

Henry  made  no  reply,  and  plodded  on  alone, 
though  often  he  cast  anxious  glances  back  into  the 
gray  solitude  where  his  partner  had  disappeared. 
An  hour  later,  taking  advantage  of  the  cut-offs 
around  which  the  sled  had  to  go,  Bill  arrived. 

"They're  scattered  an'  ran  gin'  along  wide,"  he 
said;  "keepin'  up  with  us  an'  lookin'  for  game  at 
the  same  time.  You  see,  they're  sure  of  us,  only 
they  know  they've  got  to  wait  to  get  us.  In  the 
meantime  they're  willin'  to  pick  up  any  thin'  eatable 
that  comes  handy." 

"You  mean  they  think  they're  sure  of  us,"  Henry 
objected  pointedly. 

But  Bill  ignored  him.  "I  seen  some  of  them. 
They're  pretty  thin.  They  ain't  had  a  bit  in  weeks, 
I  reckon,  outside  of  Fatty  an'  Frog  an'  Spanker;  an 
there's  so  many  of  'em  that  that  didn't  go  far. 
They're  remarkable  thin.  Their  ribs  is  like  wash 
boards,  an'  their  stomachs  is  right  up  against  their 
backbones.  They're  pretty  desperate,  I  can  tell  you. 
They'll  be  goin'  mad,  yet,  an'  then  watch  out." 

A  few  minutes  later,  Henry,  who  was  now  travel 
ling  behind  the  sled,  emitted  a  low,  warning  whistle. 
Bill  turned  and  looked,  then  quietly  stopped  the  dogs. 
To  the  rear,  from  around  the  last  bend  and  plainly 
into  view,  on  the  very  trail  they  had  just  covered, 
trotted  a  furry,  slinking  form.  Its  nose  was  to  the 
trail,  and  it  trotted  with  a  peculiar,  sliding,  effortless 


26  WHITE  FANG 

gait.    When  they  halted,  it  halted,  throwing  up  its 
head  and  regarding  them  steadily  with  nostrils  that 
twitched  as  it  caught  and  studied  the  scent  of  them. 
"It's  the  she- wolf, "  Bill  whispered. 
The  dogs  had  lain  down  in  the  snow,  and  he  walked 
past  them  to  join  his  partner  at  the  sled.     Together 
they  watched  the  strange  animal  that  had  pursued 
them  for  days  and  that  had  already  accomplished  the 
destruction  of  half  their  dog-team. 

After  a  searching  scrutiny,  the  animal  trotted  for 
ward  a  few  steps.  This  it  repeated  several  times, 
till  it  was  a  short  hundred  yards  away.  It  paused, 
head  up,  close  by  a  clump  of  spruce  trees,  and  with 
sight  and  scent  studied  the  outfit  of  the  watching 
men.  It  looked  at  them  in  a  strangely  wistful  way, 
after  the  manner  of  a  dog;  but  in  its  wistfulness 
there  was  none  of  the  dog  affection.  It  was  a  wist 
fulness  bred  of  hunger,  as  cruel  as  its  own  fangs, 
as  merciless  as  the  frost  itself. 

It  was  large  for  a  wolf,  its  gaunt  frame  advertis 
ing  the  lines  of  an  animal  that  was  among  the  largest 
of  its  kind. 

"Stands  pretty  close  to  two  feet  an'  a  half  at  the 
shoulders, "  Henry  commented.  "An*  I'll  bet  it 
ain  ?t  far  from  five  feet  long. ' ' 

"Kind  of  strange  color  for  a  wolf,"  was  BilPs 
criticism.  "I  never  seen  a  red  wolf  before.  Looks 
almost  cinnamon  to  me." 


THE  SHE- WOLF  27 

The  animal  was  certainly  not  cinnamon-colored. 
Its  coat  was  the  true  wolf -coat.  The  dominant  color 
was  gray,  and  yet  there  was  to  it  a  faint  reddish  hue 
—a  hue  that  was  baffling,  that  appeared  and  disap 
peared,  that  was  more  like  an  illusion  of  the  vision, 
now  gray,  distinctly  gray,  and  again  giving  hints 
and  glints  of  a  vague  redness  of  color  not  classifiable 
in  terms  of  ordinary  experience. 

"Looks  for  all  the  world  like  a  big  husky  sled- 
dog,'7  Bill  said.  "I  wouldn't  be  s 'prised  to  see  it 
wag  its  tail. 

' '  Hello,  you  husky ! "  he  called.  * t  Come  here,  you 
whatever-your-name-is. 9 ' 

"Ain't  a  bit  scairt  of  you,"  Henry  laughed. 

Bill  waved  his  hand  at  it  threateningly  and 
shouted  loudly;  but  the  animal  betrayed  no  fear. 
The  only  change  in  it  that  they  could  notice  was  an 
accession  of  alertness.  It  still  regarded  them  with 
the  merciless  wistfulness  of  hunger.  They  were 
meat  and  it  was  hungry ;  and  it  would  like  to  go  in 
and  eat  them  if  it  dared. 

"Look  here,  Henry,"  Bill  said,  unconsciously 
lowering  his  voice  to  a  whisper  because  of  what  he 
meditated.  "We've  got  three  cartridges.  But  it's 
a  dead  shot.  Couldn't  miss  it.  It's  got  away  with 
three  of  our  dogs,  an'  we  oughter  put  a  stop  to  it. 
What  d'ye  say?" 

Henry     nodded     his     consent.    Bill     cautiously 


28  WHITE  FANG 

slipped  the  gun  from  under  the  sled-lashing.  The 
gun  was  on  the  way  to  his  shoulder,  but  it  never  got 
there.  For  in  that  instant  the  she-wolf  leaped  side- 
wise  from  the  trail  into  the  clump  of  spruce  trees 
and  disappeared. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other.  Henry 
whistled  long  and  comprehendingly. 

"I  might  have  knowed  it,"  Bill  chided  himself 
aloud,  as  he  replaced  the  gun.  "Of  course  a  wolf 
that  knows  enough  to  come  in  with  the  dogs  at 
feedin'  time,  'd  know  all  about  shooting-irons.  I 
tell  you  right  now,  Henry,  that  critter's  the  cause  of 
all  our  trouble.  We'd  have  six  dogs  at  the  present 
time,  'stead  of  three,  if  it  wasn't  for  her.  An'  I  tell 
you  right  now,  Henry,  I'm  goin'  to  get  her.  She's 
too  smart  to  be  shot  in  the  open.  But  I'm  goin'  to 
lay  for  her.  I  '11  bushwhack  her  as  sure  as  my  name 
is  Bill." 

"You  needn't  stray  off  too  far  in  doin'  it,"  his 
partner  admonished.  "If  that  pack  ever  starts  to 
jump  you,  them  three  cartridges  'd  be  wuth  no 
more  'n  three  whoops  in  hell.  Them  animals  is  damn 
hungry,  an'  once  they  start  in,  they'll  sure  get  you, 
Bill." 

They  camped  early  that  night.  Three  dogs  could 
not  drag  the  sled  so  fast  nor  for  so  long  hours  as 
could  six,  and  they  were  showing  unmistakable  signs 


THE  SHE- WOLF  29 

of  playing  out.  And  the  men  went  early  to  bed, 
Bill  first  seeing  to  it  that  the  dogs  were  tied  out  of 
gnawing-reach  of  one  another. 

But  the  wolves  were  growing  bolder,  and  the  men 
were  aroused  more  than  once  from  their  sleep.  So 
near  did  the  wolves  approach,  that  the  dogs  became 
frantic  with  terror,  and  it  was  necessary  to  replen 
ish  the  fire  from  time  to  time  in  order  to  keep  the 
adventurous  marauders  at  safer  distance. 

"I've  hearn  sailors  talk  of  sharks  followin'  a 
ship,"  Bill  remarked,  as  he  crawled  back  into  the 
blankets  after  one  such  replenishing  of  the  fire. 
"Well,  them  wolves  is  land  sharks.  They  know 
their  business  better 'n  we  do,  an'  they  ain't  a-holdin ' 
our  trail  this  way  for  their  health.  They're  goin' 
to  get  us.  They're  sure  goin'  to  get  us,  Henry." 

"They've  half  got  you  a 'ready,  a-talkin'  like 
that,"  Henry  retorted  sharply.  "A  man's  half 
licked  when  he  says  he  is.  An*  you're  half  eaten 
from  the  way  you're  goin'  on  about  it." 

4 '  They  've  got  away  with  better  men  than  you  an ' 
me,"  Bill  answered. 

"Oh,  shet  up  your  croakin'.  You  make  me  all- 
fired  tired." 

Henry  rolled  over  angrily  on  his  side,  but  was 
surprised  that  Bill  made  no  similar  display  of 
temper.  This  was  not  Bill's  way,  for  he  was  easily 


30  WHITE  FANG 

angered  by  sharp  words.  Henry  thought  long  over 
it  before  he  went  to  sleep,  and  as  his  eyelids  fluttered 
down  and  he  dozed  off,  the  thought  in  his  mind  was : 
"There's  no  mistakin'  it,  Bill's  almighty  blue.  I'll 
have  to  cheer  him  up  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   HUNGER    CRY 

THE  day  began  auspiciously.  They  had  lost  no 
dogs  during  the  night,  and  they  swung  out  upon  the 
trail  and  into  the  silence,  the  darkness,  and  the  cold 
with  spirits  that  were  fairly  light.  Bill  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  his  forebodings  of  the  previous  night, 
and  even  waxed  facetious  with  the  dogs  when,  at 
midday,  they  overturned  the  sled  on  a  bad  piece  of 
trail. 

It  was  an  awkward  mix-up.  The  sled  was  upside 
down  and  jammed  between  a  tree-trunk  and  a  huge 
rock,  and  they  were  forced  to  unharness  the  dogs  in 
order  to  straighten  out  the  tangle.  The  two  men 
were  bent  over  the  sled  and  trying  to  right  it,  when 
Henry  observed  One  Ear  sidling  away. 

"Here,  you,  One  Ear!"  he  cried,  straightening  up 
and  turning  around  on  the  dog. 

But  One  Ear  broke  into  a  run  across  the  snow,  his 
traces  trailing  behind  him.  And  there,  out  in  the 
snow  of  their  back-track,  was  the  she-wolf  waiting 
for  him.  As  he  neared  her,  he  became  suddenly 
cautious.  He  slowed  down  to  an  alert  and  mincing 
walk  and  then  -stopped.  He  regarded  her  carefully 

31 


32  WHITE  FANG 

and  dubiously,  yet  desirefully.  She  seemed  to  smile 
at  him,  showing  her  teeth  in  an  ingratiating  rather 
than  a  menacing  way.  She  moved  toward  him  a 
few  steps,  playfully,  and  then  halted.  One  Ear  drew 
near  to  her,  still  alert  and  cautious,  his  tail  and  ears 
in  the  air,  his  head  held  high. 

He  tried  to  sniff  noses  with  her,  but  she  retreated 
playfully  and  coyly.  Every  advance  on  his  part  was 
accompanied  by  a  corresponding  retreat  on  her  part. 
Step  by  step  she  was  luring  him  away  from  the 
security  of  his  human  companionship.  Once,  as 
though  a  warning  had  in  vague  ways  flitted  through 
his  intelligence,  he  turned  his  head  and  looked  back 
at  the  overturned  sled,  at  his  team-mates,  and  at  the 
two  men  who  were  calling  to  him. 

But  whatever  idea  was  forming  in  his  mind,  was 
dissipated  by  the  she-wolf,  who  advanced  upon  hirn, 
sniffed  noses  with  him  for  a  fleeting  instant,  and  then 
resumed  her  cox  retreat  before  his  renewed  ad 
vances. 

In  the  meantime,  Bill  had  bethought  himself  of 
the  rifle.  But  it  was  jammed  beneath  the  overturned 
sled,  and  by  the  time  Henry  had  helped  him  to  right 
the  load,  One  Ear  and  the  she-wolf  were  too  close 
together  and  the  distance  too  great  to  risk  a  shot. 

Too  late,  One  Ear  learned  his  mistake.  Before 
they  saw  the  cause,  the  two  men  saw  him  turn  and 
start  to  run  back  toward  them.  Then,  approaching 


THE  HUNGER  CRY  33 

at  right  angles  to  the  trail  and  cutting  off  his  re 
treat,  they  saw  a  dozen  wolves,  lean  and  gray,  bound 
ing  across  the  snow.  On  the  instant,  the  she-wolf's 
coyness  and  playfulness  disappeared.  With  a  snarl 
she  sprang  upon  One  Ear.  He  thrust  her  off  with 
his  shoulder,  and,  his  retreat  cut  off  and  still  intent 
on  regaining  the  sled,  he  altered  his  course  in  an  at 
tempt  to  circle  around  to  it.  More  wolves  were  ap 
pearing  every  moment  and  joining  in  the  chase. 
The  she-wolf  was  one  leap  behind  One  Ear  and  hold 
ing  her  own. 

" Where  are  you  goin'?"  Henry  suddenly  de 
manded,  laying  his  hand  on  his  partner 's  arm. 

Bill  shook  it  off.  "I  won't  stand  it,"  he  said. 
' '  They  ain  't  a-goin '  to  get  any  more  of  our  dogs  if  I 
can  help  it." 

Gun  in  hand,  he  plunged  into  the  underbrush  that 
lined  the  side  of  the  trail.  His  intention  was  appar 
ent  enough.  Taking  the  sled  as  the  centre  of  the 
circle  that  One  Ear  was  making,  Bill  planned  to 
tap  that  circle  at  a  point  in  advance  of  the  pursuit. 
With  his  rifle,  in  the  broad  daylight,  it  might  be  pos 
sible  for  him  to  awe  the  wolves  and  save  the  dog. 

"Say,  Bill!"  Henry  called  after  him.  "Be  care 
ful!  Don't  take  no  chances!" 

Henry  sat  down  on  the  sled  and  watched.  There 
was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do.  Bill  had  already 
gone  from  sight ;  but  now  and  again,  appearing  and 


34  WHITE  FANG 

disappearing  amongst  the  underbrush  and  the  scat 
tered  clumps  of  spruce,  could  be  seen  One  Ear. 
Henry  judged  his  case  to  be  hopeless.  The  dog  was 
thoroughly  alive  to  its  danger,  but  it  was  running  on 
the  outer  circle  while  the  wolf -pack  was  running  on 
the  inner  and  shorter  circle.  It  was  vain  to  think  of 
One  Ear  so  outdistancing  his  pursuers  as  to  be  able 
to  cut  across  their  circle  in  advance  of  them  and  to 
regain  the  sled. 

The  different  lines  were  rapidly  approaching  a 
point.  Somewhere  out  there  in  the  snow,  screened 
from  his  sight  by  trees  and  thickets,  Henry  knew 
that  the  wolf -pack,  One  Ear,  and  Bill  were  coming 
together.  All  too  quickly,  far  more  quickly  than  he 
had  expected,  it  happened.  He  heard  a  shot,  then 
two  shots  in  rapid  succession,  and  he  knew  that  Bill's 
ammunition  was  gone.  Then  he  heard  a  great  out 
cry  of  snarls  and  yelps.  He  recognized  One  Ear's 
yell  of  pain  and  terror,  and  he  heard  a  wolf -cry  that 
bespoke  a  stricken  animal.  And  that  was  all.  The 
snarls  ceased.  The  yelping  died  away.  Silence  set 
tled  down  again  over  the  lonely  land. 

He  sat  for  a  long  while  upon  the  sled.  There  was 
no  need  for  him  to  go  and  see  what  had  happened. 
He  knew  it  as  though-  it  had  taken  place  before  his 
eyes.  Once,  he  roused  with  a  start  and  hastily  got 
the  axe  out  from  underneath  the  lashings.  But  for 


THE  HUNGER  CRY  35 

some  time  longer  he  sat  and  brooded,  the  two  remain 
ing  dogs  crouching  and  trembling  at  his  feet. 

At  last  he  arose  in  a  weary  manner,  as  though  all 
the  resilence  had  gone  out  of  his  body,  and  proceeded 
to  fasten  the  dogs  to  the  sled.  He  passed  a  rope 
over  his  shoulder,  a  man-trace,  and  pulled  with  the 
dogs.  He  did  not  go  far.  At  the  first  hint  of  dark 
ness  he  hastened  to  make  a  camp,  and  he  saw  to  it 
that  he  had  a  generous  supply  of  firewood.  He  fed 
the  dogs,  cooked  and  ate  his  supper,  and  made  his 
bed  close  to  the  fire. 

But  he  was  not  destined  to  enjoy  that  bed.  Before 
his  eyes  closed  the  wolves  had  drawn  too  near  for 
safety.  It  no  longer  required  an  effort  of  the  vision 
to  see  them.  They  were  all  about  him  and  the  fire, 
in  a  narrow  circle,  and  he  could  see  them  plainly  in 
the  firelight,  lying  down,  sitting  up,  crawling  for 
ward  on  their  bellies,  or  slinking  back  and  forth. 
They  even  slept.  Here  and  there  he  could  see  one 
curled  up  in  the  snow  like  a  dog,  taking  the  sleep 
that  was  now  denied  himself. 

He  kept  the  fire  brightly  blazing,  for  he  knew  that 
it  alone  intervened  between  the  flesh  of  his  body  and 
their  hungry  fangs.  His  two  dogs  stayed  close  by 
him,  one  on  either  side,  leaning  against  him  for  pro 
tection,  crying  and  whimpering,  and  at  times  snarl 
ing  desperately  when  a  wolf  approached  a  little 


36  WHITE  FANG 

closer  than  usual.  At  such  moments,  when  his  dogs 
snarled,  the  whole  circle  would  be  agitated,  the 
wolves  coming  to  their  feet  and  pressing  tentatively 
forward,  a  chorus  of  snarls  and  eager  yelps  rising 
about  him.  Then  the  circle  would  lie  down  again, 
and  here  and  there  a  wolf  would  resume  its  broken 
nap. 

But  this  circle  had  a  continuous  tendency  to  draw 
in  upon  him.  Bit  by  bit,  an  inch  at  a  time,  with  here 
a  wolf  bellying  forward,  and  there  a  wolf  bellying 
forward,  the  circle  would  narrow  until  the  brutes 
were  almost  within  springing  distance.  Then  he 
would  seize  brands  from  the  fire  and  hurl  them  into 
the  pack.  A  hasty  drawing  back  always  resulted, 
accompanied  by  angry  yelps  and  frightened  snarls 
when  a  well-aimed  brand  struck  and  scorched  a  too 
daring  animal. 

Morning  found  the  man  haggard  and  worn,  wide- 
eyed  from  want  of  sleep.  He  cooked  breakfast  in 
the  darkness,  and  at  nine  o'clock,  when,  with  the 
coming  of  daylight,  the  wolf -pack  drew  back,  he  set 
about  the  task  he  had  planned  through  the  long  hours 
of  the  night.  Chopping  down  young  saplings,  he 
made  them  cross-bars  of  a  scaffold  by  lashing  them 
high  up  to  the  trunks  of  standing  trees.  Using  the 
sled-lashing  for  a  heaving  rope,  and  with  the  aid  of 
the  dogs,  he  hoisted  the  coffin  to  the  top  of  the  scaf 
fold. 


THE  HUNGER  CRY  37 

"They  got  Bill,  an'  they  may  get  me,  but  they'll 
sure  never  get  you,  young  man,"  he  said,  addressing 
the  dead  body  in  its  tree-sepulchre. 

Then  he  took  the  trail,  the  lightened  sled  bounding 
along  behind  the  willing  dogs;  for  they,  too,  knew 
that  safety  lay  only  in  the  gaining  of  Fort  McGurry. 
The  wolves  were  now  more  open  in  their  pursuit, 
trotting  sedately  behind  and  ranging  along  on  either 
side,  their  red  tongues  lolling  out,  their  lean  sides 
showing  the  undulating  ribs  with  every  movement. 
They  were  very  lean,  mere  skin-bags  stretched  over 
bony  frames,  with  strings  for  muscles — so  lean  that 
Henry  found  it  in  his  mind  to  marvel  that  they  still 
kept  their  feet  and  did  not  collapse  forthright  in  the 
snow. 

He  did  not  dare  travel  until  dark.  At  midday, 
not  only  did  the  sun  warm  the  southern  horizon,  but 
it  even  thrust  its  upper  rim,  pale  and  golden,  above 
the  sky-line.  He  received  it  as  a  sign.  The  days 
were  growing  longer.  The  sun  was  returning.  But 
scarcely  had  the  cheer  of  its  light  departed,  than  he 
went  into  camp.  There  were  still  several  hours  of 
gray  daylight  and  sombre  twilight,  and  he  utilized 
them  in  chopping  an  enormous  supply  of  firewood. 

With  night  came  horror.  Not  only  were  the  starv 
ing  wolves  growing  bolder,  but  lack  of  sleep  was 
telling  upon  Henry.  He  dozed  despite  himself, 
crouching  by  the  fire,  the  blankets  about  his  shoul- 


38  WHITE  FANG 

ders,  the  axe  between  his  knees,  and  on  either  side  a 
dog  pressing  close  against  him.  He  awoke  once  and 
saw  in  front  of  him,  not  a  dozen  feet  away,  a  big  gray 
wolf,  one  of  the  largest  of  the  pack.  And  even  as  he 
looked,  the  brute  deliberately  stretched  himself  after 
the  manner  of  a  lazy  dog,  yawning  full  in  his  face 
and  looking  upon  him  with  a  possessive  eye,  as  if, 
in  truth,  he  were  merely  a  delayed  meal  that  was 
soon  to  be  eaten. 

This  certitude  was  shown  by  the  whole  pack. 
Fully  a  score  he  could  count,  staring  hungrily  at  him 
or  calmly  sleeping  in  the  snow.  They  reminded  him 
of  children  gathered  about  a  spread  table  and  await 
ing  permission  to  begin  to  eat.  And  he  was  the  food 
they  were  to  eat !  He  wondered  how  and  when  the 
meal  would  begin. 

As  he  piled  wood  on  the  fire  he  discovered  an  ap 
preciation  of  his  own  body  which  he  had  never  felt 
before.  He  watched  his  moving  muscles  and  was 
interested  in  the  cunning  mechanism  of  his  fingers. 
By  the  light  of  the  fire  he  crooked  his  fingers  slowly 
and  repeatedly,  now  one  at  a  time,  now  all  together, 
•spreading  them  wide  or  making  quick  gripping 
movements.  He  studied  the  nail-formation,  and 
prodded  the  finger-tips,  now  sharply,  and  again 
softly,  gauging  the  while  the  nerve-sensations  pro 
duced.  It  fascinated  him,  and  he  grew  suddenly 
fond  of  this  subtle  flesh  of  his  that  worked  so  beau- 


THE  HUNGER  CRY  39 

tifully  and  smoothly  and  delicately.  Then  he  would 
cast  a  glance  of  fear  at  the  wolf -circle  drawn  ex 
pectantly  about  him,  and  like  a  blow  the  realization 
would  strike  him  that  this  wonderful  body  of  his, 
this  living  flesh,  was  no  more  than  so  much  meat, 
a  quest  of  ravenous  animals,  to  be  torn  and  slashed 
by  their  hungry  fangs,  to  be  sustenance  to  them  as 
the  moose  and  the  rabbit  had  often  been  sustenance 
to  him. 

He  came  out  of  a  doze  that  was  half  nightmare, 
to  see  the  red-hued  she-wolf  before  him.  She  was 
not  more  than  half  a  dozen  feet  away,  sitting  in  the 
snow  and  wistfully  regarding  him.  The  two  dogs 
were  whimpering  and  snarling  at  his  feet,  but  she 
took  no  notice  of  them.  She  was  looking  at  the  man, 
and  for  some  time  he  returned  her  look.  There  was 
nothing  threatening  about  her.  She  looked  at  him 
merely  with  a  great  wistfulness,  but  he  knew  it  to 
be  the  wistfulness  of  an  equally  great  hunger.  He 
was  the  food,  and  the  sight  of  him  excited  in  her 
the  gustatory  sensations.  Her  mouth  opened,  the 
saliva  drooled  forth,  and  she  licked  her  chops  with 
the  pleasure  of  anticipation. 

A  spasm  of  fear  went  through  him.  He  reached 
hastily  for  a  brand  to  throw  at  her.  But  even  as 
he  reached,  and  before  his  fingers  had  closed  on  the 
missile,  she  sprang  back  into  safety;  and  he  knew 
that  she  was  used  to  having  things  thrown  at  her. 


40  WHITE  FANG 

She  had  snarled  as  she  sprang  away,  baring  her 
white  fangs  to  their  roots,  all  her  wistfulness  vanish 
ing,  being  replaced  by  a  carnivorous  malignity  that 
made  him  shudder.  He  glanced  at  the  hand  that 
held  the  brand,  noticing  the  cunning  delicacy  of  the 
fingers  that  gripped  it,  how  they  adjusted  themselves 
to  all  the  inequalities  of  the  surface,  curling  over  and 
under  and  about  the  rough  wood,  and  one  little 
finger,  too  close  to  the  burning  portion  of  the  brand, 
sensitively  and  automatically  writhing  back  from  the 
hurtful  heat  to  a  cooler  gripping-place;  and  in  the 
same  instant  he  seemed  to  see  a  vision  of  those  same 
sensitive  and  delicate  fingers  being  crushed  and  torn 
by  the  white  teeth  of  the  she-wolf.  Never  had  he 
been  so  fond  of  this  body  of  his  as  now  when  his 
tenure  of  it  was  so  precarious. 

All  night,  with  burning  brands,  he  fought  off  the 
hungry  pack.  When  he  dozed  despite  himself,  the 
whimpering  and  snarling  of  the  dogs  aroused  him. 
Morning  came,  but  for  the  first  time  the  light  of  day 
failed  to  scatter  the  wolves.  The  man  waited  in 
vain  for  them  to  go.  -They  remained  in  a  circle 
about  him  and  his  'fire,  displaying  an  arrogance  of 
possession  that  shook  his  courage  born  of  the  morn 
ing  light. 

He  made  one  desperate  attempt  to  pull  out  on  the 
trail.  But  the  moment  he  left  the  protection  of  the 
fire,  the  boldest  wolf  leaped  for  him,  but  leaped 


THE  HUNGER  CRY  41 

short.  He  saved  himself  by  springing  back,  the 
jaws  snapping  together  a  scant  six  inches  from  his 
thigh.  The  rest  of  the  pack  was  now  up  and  surging 
upon  him,  and  a  throwing  of  firebrands  right  and 
left  was  necessary  to  drive  them  back  to  a  respectful 
distance. 

Even  in  the  daylight  he  did  not  dare  leave  the  fire 
to  chop  fresh  wood.  Twenty  feet  away  towered  a 
huge  dead  spruce.  He  spent  half  the  day  extending 
his  campfire  to  the  tree,  at  any  moment  a  half  dozen 
burning  fagots  ready  at  hand  to  fling  at  his  enemies. 
Once  at  the  tree,  he  studied  the  surrounding  forest 
in  order  to  fell  the  tree  in  the  direction  of  the  most 
firewood. 

The  night  was  a  repetition  of  the  night  before, 
save  that  the  need  for  sleep  was  becoming  over 
powering.  The  snarling  of  his  dogs  was  losing  its 
efficacy.  Besides,  they  were  snarling  all  the  time, 
and  his  benumbed  and  drowsy  senses  no  longer  took 
note  of  changing  pitch  and  intensity.  He  awoke 
with  a  start.  The  she-wolf  was  less  than  a  yard 
from  him.  Mechanically,  at  short  range,  without 
letting  go  of  it,  he  thrust  a  brand  full  into  her  open 
and  snarling  mouth.  She  sprang  away,  yelling  with 
pain,  and  while  he  took  delight  in  the  smell  of  burn 
ing  flesh  and  hair,  he  watched  her  shaking  her  head 
and  growling  wrathfully  a  score  of  feet  away. 

But  this  time,  before  he  dozed  again,  he  tied  a 


42  WHITE  FANG 

burning  pine-knot  to  his  right  hand.  His  eyes  were 
closed  but  a  few  minutes  when  the  burn  of  the  flame 
on  his  flesh  awakened  him.  For  several  hours  he 
adhered  to  this  programme.  Every  time  he  was 
thus  awakened  he  drove  back  the  wolves  with  flying 
brands,  replenished  the  fire,  and  rearranged  the 
pine-knot  on  his  hand.  All  worked  well,  but  there 
came  a  time  when  he  fastened  the  pine-knot  inse 
curely.  As  his  eyes  closed  it  fell  away  from  his 
hand. 

He  dreamed.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  in 
Fort  McGurry.  It  was  warm  and  comfortable,  and 
he  was  playing  cribbage  with  the  Factor.  Also,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  fort  was  besieged  by  wolves. 
They  were  howling  at  the  very  gates,  and  sometimes 
he  and  the  Factor  paused  from  the  game  to  listen  and 
laugh  at  the  futile  efforts  of  the  wolves  to  get  in. 
And  then,  so  strange  was  the  dream,  there  was  a 
crash.  The  door  was  burst  open.  He  could  see  the 
wolves  flooding  into  the  big  living-room  of  the  fort. 
They  were  leaping  straight  for  him  and  the  Factor. 
With  the  bursting  open  of  the  door,  the  noise  of  their 
howling  had  increased  tremendously.  This  howling 
now  bothered  him.  His  dream  was  merging  into 
something  else — he  knew  not  what;  but  through  it 
all,  following  him,  persisted  the  howling. 

And  then  he  awoke  to  find  the  howling  real. 
The-re  was  a  great  snarling  and  yelping.  The 


THE  HUNGER  CRY  43 

wolves  were  rushing  him.  They  were  all  about  him 
and  upon  him.  The  teeth  of  one  had  closed  upon  his 
arm.  Instinctively  he  leaped  into  the  fire,  and  as 
he  leaped,  he  felt  the  sharp  slash  of  teeth  that  tore 
through  the  flesh  of  his  leg.  Then  began  a  fire  fight. 
His  stout  mittens  temporarily  protected  his  hands, 
and  he  scooped  live  coals  into  the  air  in  all  directions, 
until  the  camp-fire  took  on  the  semblance  of  a  vol 
cano. 

But  it  could  not  last  long.  His  face  was  blistering 
in  the  heat,  his  eyebrows  and  lashes  were  singed  off, 
and  the  heat  was  becoming  unbearable  to  his  feet. 
With  a  flaming  brand  in  each  hand,  he  sprang  to  the 
edge  of  the  fire.  The  wolves  had  been  driven  back. 
On  every  side,  wherever  the  live  coals  had  fallen,  the 
snow  was  sizzling,  and  every  little  while  a  retiring 
wolf,  with  wild  leap  and  snort  and  snarl,  announced 
that  one  such  live  coal  had  been  stepped  upon. 

Flinging  his  brands  at  the  nearest  of  his  enemies, 
the  man  thrust  his  smouldering  mittens  into  the 
snow  and  stamped  about  to  cool  his  feet.  His  two 
dogs  were  missing,  and  he  well  knew  that  'they  had 
served  as  a  course  in  the  protracted  meal  which  had 
begun  days  before  with  Fatty,  the  last  course  of 
which  would  likely  be  himself  in  the  days  to  follow. 

"You  ain't  got  me  yet!"  he  cried,  savagely  shak 
ing  his  fist  at  the  hungry  beasts;  and  at  the  sound 
of  his  voice  the  whole  circle  was  agitated,  there  was 


44  WHITE  FANG 

a  general  snarl,  and  the  she-wolf  slid  up  close  to 
him  across  the  snow  and  watched  him  with  hungry 
wistfulness. 

He  set  to  work  to  carry  out  a  new  idea  that  had 
come  to  him.  He  extended  the  fire  into  a  large 
circle.  Inside  this  circle  he  crouched,  his  sleeping 
outfit  under  him  as  a  protection  against  the  melting 
snow.  When  he  had  thus  disappeared  within  his 
shelter  of  flame,  the  whole  pack  came  curiously  to 
the  rim  of  the  fire  to  see  what  had  become  of  him. 
Hitherto  they  had  been  denied  access  to  the  fire,  and 
they  now  settled  down  in  a  close-drawn  circle,  like 
so  many  dogs,  blinking  and  yawning  and  stretching 
their  lean  bodies  in  the  unaccustomed  warmth. 
Then  the  she-wolf  sat  down,  pointed  her  nose  at  a 
star,  and  began  to  howl.  One  by  one  the  wolves 
joined  her,  till  the  whole  pack,  on  haunches,  with 
noses  pointed  skyward,  was  howling  its  hunger 
cry. 

Dawn  came,  and  daylight  The  fire  was  burning 
low.  The  fuel  had  run  out,  and  there  was  need  to 
get  more.  The  man  attempted  to  step  out  of  his 
circle  of  flame,  but  the  wolves  surged  to  meet  him. 
Burning  brands  made  them  spring  aside,  but  they  no 
longer  sprang  back.  IB  vain  he  strove  to  drive  them 
back.  As  he  gave  up  and  stumbled  inside  his  circle, 
a  wolf  leaped  for  him,  missed,  and  landed  with  all 
four  feet  in  the  coals.  It  cried  out  with  terror,  at 


THE  HUNGER  CRY  45 

the  same  time  snarling,  and  scrambled  back  to  cool 
its  paws  in  the  snow. 

The  man  sat  down  on  his  blankets  in  a  crouching 
position.  His  body  leaned  forward  from  the  hips. 
His  shoulders,  relaxed  and  drooping,  and  his  head 
on  his  knees  advertised  that  he  had  given  up  the 
struggle.  Now  and  again  he  raised  his  head  to  note 
the  dying  down  of  the  fire.  The  circle  of  flame  and 
coals  was  breaking  into  segments  with  openings  in 
between.  These  openings  grew  in  size,  the  segments 
diminished. 

"I  guess  you  can  come  an'  get  me  any  time,"  he 
mumbled.  "Anyway,  I'm  goin'  to  sleep." 

Once  he  wakened,  and  in  an  opening  in  the  circle, 
directly  in  front  of  him,  he  saw  the  she-wolf  gazing 
at  him. 

Again  he  awakened,  a  little  later,  though  it  seemed 
hours  to  him.  A  mysterious  change  had  taken 
place — so  mysterious  a  change  that  he  was  shocked 
wider  awake.  Something  had  happened.  He  could 
not  understand  at  first.  Then  he  discovered  it. 
The  wolves  were  gone.  Remained  only  the  trampled 
snow  to  show  how  closely  they  had  pressed  him. 
Sleep  was  welling  up  and  gripping  him  again,  his 
head  was  sinking  down  upon  his  knees,  when  he 
roused  with  a  sudden  start. 

There  were  cries  of  men,  the  churn  of  sleds,  the 
creaking  of  harnesses,  and  the  eager  whimpering  of 


46  WHITE  FANG 

straining  dogs.  Four  sleds  pulled  in  from  the  river 
bed  to  the  camp  among  the  trees.  Half  a  dozen  men 
were  about  the  man  who  crouched  in  the  centre  of 
the  dying  fire.  They  were  shaking  and  prodding 
him  into  consciousness.  He  looked  at  them  like  a 
drunken  man  and  maundered  in  strange,  sleepy 
speech : 

"Red  she-wolf.  .  .  .  Come  in  with  the  dogs  at 
feedin'  time.  .  .  .  First  she  ate  the  dog-food.  .  .  . 
Then  she  ate  the  dogs.  .  .  .  An'  after  that  she  ate 
Bill.  .  .  ." 

"Where's  Lord  Alfred?"  one  of  the  men  bellowed 
in  his  ear,  shaking  him  roughly. 

He  shook  his  head  slowly.  "No,  she  didn't  eat 
him.  .  .  .  He's  roostin'  in  a  tree  at  the  last  camp." 

"Dead?"  the  man  shouted. 

"An'  in  a  box,"  Henry  answered.  He  jerked  his 
shoulder  petulantly  away  from  the  grip  of  his  ques 
tioner.  "Say,  you  lemme  alone.  .  .  .  I'm  jes' 
plumb  tuckered  out.  .  .  .  Goo'  night,  everybody." 

His  eyes  fluttered  and  went  shut.  His  chin  fell 
forward  on  his  chest.  And  even  as  they  eased  him 
down  upon  the  blankets  his  snores  were  rising  on 
the  frosty  air. 

But  there  was  another  sound.  Far  and  faint  it 
was,  in  the  remote  distance,  the  cry  of  the  hungry 
wolf -pack  as  it  took  the  trail  of  other  meat  than  the 
man  it  had  just  missed. 


PART  TWO 
BORN  OF  THE  WILD 

CHAPTER      I THE  BATTLE  OP  THE  FANGS 

CHAPTER     II THE  LAIR 

CHAPTER   III THE  GRAY  CUB 

CHAPTER    IV       .     .   ' THE  WALL  OF  THE  WORLD 

CHAPTER     V  ...  THE  LAW  OF  MEAT 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   BATTLE   OF   THE   FANGS 

IT  was  the  she-wolf  who  had  first  caught  the  sound 
of  men's  voices  and  the  whining  of  the  sled-dogs; 
and  it  was  the  she-wolf  who  was  first  to  spring 
away  from  the  cornered  man  in  his  circle  of  dying 
flame.  The  pack  had  been  loath  to  forego  the  kill 
it  had  hunted  down,  and  it  lingered  for  several  min 
utes,  making  sure  of  the  sounds;  and  then  it,  too, 
sprang  away  on  the  trail  made  by  the  she-wolf. 

Running  at  the  forefront  of  the  pack  was  a  large 
gray  wolf — one  of  its  several  leaders.  It  was  he 
who  directed  the  pack's  course  on  the  heels  of  the 
she-wolf.  It  was  he  who  snarled  warningly  at  the 
younger  members  of  the  pack  or  slashed  at  them 
with  his  fangs  when  they  ambitiously  tried  to  pass 
him.  And  it  was  he  who  increased  the  pace  when 
he  sighted  the  she-wolf,  now  trotting  slowly  across 
the  snow. 

She  dropped  in  alongside  by  him,  as  though  it 
were  her  appointed  position,  and  took  the  pace  of  the 
pack.  He  did  not  snarl  at  her,  nor  show  his  teeth, 
when  any  leap  of  hers  chanced  to  put  her  in  advance 
of  him.  On  the  contrary,  he  seemed  kindly  disposed 

49 


50  WHITE  FANG 

toward  her — too  kindly  to  suit  her,  for  he  was  prone 
to  run  near  to  her,  and  when  he  ran  too  near  it  was 
she  who  snarled  and  showed  her  teeth.  Nor  was  she 
above  slashing  his  shoulder  sharply  on  occasion.  At 
such  times  he  betrayed  no  anger.  He  merely  sprang 
to  the  side  and  ran  stiffly  ahead  for  several  awkward 
leaps,  in  carriage  and  conduct  resembling  an 
abashed  country  swain. 

This  was  his  one  trouble  in  the  running  of  the 
pack ;  but  she  had  other  troubles.  On  her  other  side 
ran  a  gaunt  old  wolf,  grizzled  and  marked  with  the 
scars  of  many  battles.  He  ran  always  on  her  right 
side.  The  fact  that  he  had  but  one  eye,  and  that  the 
left  eye,  might  account  for  this.  He,  also,  was  ad 
dicted  to  crowding  her,  to  veering  toward  her  till  his 
scarred  muzzle  touched  her  body,  or  shoulder,  or 
neck.  As  with  the  running  mate  on  the  left,  she  re 
pelled  these  attentions  with  her  teeth ;  but  when  both 
bestowed  their  attentions  at  the  same  time  she  was 
roughly  jostled,  being  compelled,  with  quick  snaps  to 
either  side,  to  drive  both  lovers  away  and  at  the  same 
time  to  maintain  her  forward  leap  with  the  pack  and 
see  the  way  of  her  feet  before  her.  At  such  times 
her  running  mates  flashed  their  teeth  and  growled 
threateningly  across  at  each  other.  They  might 
have  fought,  but  even  wooing  and  its  rivalry  waited 
upon  the  more  pressing  hunger-need  of  the  pack. 

After  each  repulse,  when  the  old  wolf  sheered 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  FAMiS  51 

abruptly  away  from  the  sharp-toothed  object  of  his 
desire,  he  shouldered  against  a  young  three-year- 
old  that  ran  on  his  blind  right  side.  This  young 
wolf  had  attained  his  full  size ;  and,  considering  the 
weak  and  famished  condition  of  the  pack,  he  pos 
sessed  more  than  the  average  vigor  and  spirit.  Nev 
ertheless,  he  ran  with  his  head  even  with  the  shoulder 
of  his  one-eyed  elder.  When  he  ventured  to  run 
abreast  of  the  older  wolf,  (which  was  seldom),  a 
snarl  and  a  snap  sent  him  back  even  with  the  shoul 
der  again.  Sometimes,  however,  he  dropped  cau 
tiously  and  slowly  behind  and  edged  in  between  the 
old  leader  and  the  she-wolf.  This  was  doubly  re 
sented,  even  triply  resented.  When  she  snarled  her 
displeasure,  the  old  leader  would  whirl  on  the  three- 
year-old.  Sometimes  she  whirled  with  him.  And 
sometimes  the  young  leader  on  the  left  whirled,  too. 

At  such  times,  confronted  by  three  sets  of  savage 
teeth,  the  young  wolf  stopped  precipitately,  throw 
ing  himself  back  on  his  haunches,  with  fore-legs  stiff, 
mouth  menacing,  and  mane  bristling.  This  confu 
sion  in  the  front  of  the  moving  pack  always  caused 
confusion  in  the  rear.  The  wolves  behind  collided 
with  the  young  wolf  and  expressed  their  displeasure 
by  administering  sharp  nips  on  his  hind-legs  and 
flanks.  He  was  laying  up  trouble  for  himself,  for 
lack  of  food  and  short  tempers  went  together;  but 
with  the  boundless  faith  of  youth  he  persisted  in  re- 


52  WHITE  FANG 

peating  the  manoeuvre  every  little  while,  though  it 
never  succeeded  in  gaining  anything  for  him  but  dis 
comfiture. 

Had  there  been  food,  love-making  and  fighting 
would  have  gone  on  apace,  and  the  pack-formation 
would  have  been  broken  up.  But  the  situation  of 
the  pack  was  desperate.  It  was  lean  with  long 
standing  hunger.  It  ran  below  its  ordinary  speed. 
At  the  rear  limped  the  weak  members,  the  very 
young  and  the  very  old.  At  the  front  were  the 
strongest.  Yet  all  were  more  like  skeletons  than 
full-bodied  wolves.  Nevertheless,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  the  ones  that  limped,  the  movements  of  the 
animals  were  effortless  and  tireless.  Their  stringy 
muscles  seemed  founts  of  inexhaustible  energy.  Be 
hind  every  steel-like  contraction  of  a  muscle,  lay 
another  steel-like  contraction,  and  another,  and  an 
other,  apparently  without  end. 

They  ran  many  miles  that  day.  They  ran  through 
the  night.  And  the  next  day  found  them  still  run 
ning.  They  were  running  over  the  surface  of  a 
world  frozen  and  dead.  No  life  stirred.  They 
alone  moved  through  the  vast  inertness.  They  alone 
were  alive,  and  they  sought  for  other  things  that 
were  alive  in  order  that  they  might  devour  them 
and  continue  to  live. 

They  crossed  low  divides  and  ranged  a  dozen  small 
streams  in  a  lower-lying  country  before  their  quest 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  FANGS  53 

was  rewarded.  Then  they  came  upon  moose.  It 
was  a  big  bull  they  first  found.  Here  was  meat  and 
life,  and  it  was  guarded  by  no  mysterious  fires  nor 
flying  missiles  of  flame.  Splay  hoofs  and  palmated 
antlers  they  knew,  and  they  flung  their  customary 
patience  and  caution  to  the  wind.  It  was  a  brief 
fight  and  fierce.  The  big  bull  was  beset  on  every 
side.  He  ripped  them  open  or  split  their  skulls  with 
shrewdly  driven  blows  of  his  great  hoofs.  He 
crushed  them  and  broke  them  on  his  large  horns. 
He  stamped  them  into  the  snow  under  him  in  the 
wallowing  struggle.  But  he  was  foredoomed,  and  he 
went  down  with  the  she-wolf  tearing  savagely  at  his 
throat,  and  with  other  teeth  fixed  everywhere  upon 
him,  devouring  him  alive,  before  ever  his  last  strug 
gles  ceased  or  his  last  damage  had  been  wrought. 

There  was  food  in  plenty.  The  bull  weighed  over 
eight  hundred  pounds — fully  twenty  pounds  of  meat 
per  mouth  for  the  forty-odd  wolves  of  the  pack. 
But  if  they  could  fast  prodigiously,  they  could  feed 
prodigiously,  and  soon  a  few  scattered  bones  were 
all  that  remained  of  the  splendid  live  brute  that  had 
faced  the  pack  a  few  hours  before. 

There  was  now  much  resting  and  sleeping.  With 
full  stomachs,  bickering  and  quarrelling  began 
among  the  younger  males,  and  this  continued 
through  the  few  days  that  followed  before  the  break- 
ing-up  of  the  pack.  The  famine  was  over.  The 


54  WHITE  FANG 

wolves  were  now  in  the  country  of  game,  and  though 
they  still  hunted  in  pack,  they  hunted  more  cau 
tiously,  cutting  out  heavy  cows  or  crippled  old  bulls 
from  the  small  moose-herds  they  ran  across. 

There  came  a  day,  in  this  land  of  plenty,  when  the 
wolf -pack  split  in  half  and  went  in  different  direc 
tions.  The  she-wolf,  the  young  leader  on  her  left, 
and  the  one-eyed  elder  on  her  right,  led  their  half  of 
the  pack  down  to  the  Mackenzie  River  and  across 
into  the  lake  country  to  the  east.  Each  day  this 
remnant  of  the  pack  dwindled.  Two  by  two,  male 
and  female,  the  wolves  were  deserting.  Occa 
sionally  a  solitary  male  was  driven  out  by  the  sharp 
teeth  of  his  rivals.  In  the  end  there  remained  only 
four:  the  she-wolf,  the  young  leader,  the  one-eyed 
one,  and  the  ambitious  three-year-old. 

The  she-wolf  had  by  now  developed  a  ferocious 
temper.  Her  three  suitors  all  bore  the  marks  of  her 
teeth.  Yet  they  never  replied  in  kind,  never  de 
fended  themselves  against  her.  They  turned  their 
shoulders  to  her  most  savage  slashes,  and  with  wag 
ging  tails  and  mincing  steps  strove  to  placate  her 
wrath.  But  if  they  were  all  mildness  toward  her, 
they  were  all  fierceness  toward  one  another.  The 
three-year-old  grew  too  ambitious  in  his  fierceness. 
He  caught  the  one-eyed  elder  on  his  blind  side  and 
ripped  his  ear  into  ribbons.  Though  the  grizzled  old 
fellow  could  see  only  on  one  side,  against  the  youth 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  FANGS  55 

and  vigor  of  the  other  he  brought  into  play  the  wis 
dom  of  long  years  of  experience.  His  lost  eye  and 
his  scarred  muzzle  bore  evidence  to  the  nature  of  his 
experience.  He  had  survived  too  many  battles  to  be 
in  doubt  for  a  moment  about  what  to  do. 

The  battle  began  fairly,  but  it  did  not  end  fairly. 
There  was  no  telling  what  the  outcome  would  have 
been,  for  the  third  wolf  joined  the  elder,  and  to 
gether,  old  leader  and  young  leader,  they  attacked 
the  ambitious  three-year-old  and  proceeded  to  de 
stroy  him.  He  was  beset  on  either  side  by  the  merci 
less  fangs  of  his  erstwhile  comrades.  Forgotten 
were  the  days  they  had  hunted  together,  the  game 
they  had  pulled  down,  the  famine  they  had  suffered. 
That  business  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  The  business 
of  love  was  at  hand — ever  a  sterner  and  crueler  busi- 
ness  than  that  of  food-getting. 

And  in  the  meanwhile,  the  she-wolf,  the  cause  of 
it  all,  sat  down  contentedly  on  her  haunches  and 
watched.  She  was  even  pleased.  This  was  her  day, 
—and  it  came  not  often, — when  manes  bristled,  and 
fang  smote  fang  or  ripped  and  tore  the  yielding  flesh, 
all  for  the  possession  of  her. 

And  in  the  business  of  love  the  three-year-old  who 
had  made  this  his  first  adventure  upon  it,  yielded  up 
his  life.  On  either  side  of  his  body  stood  his  two 
rivals.  They  were  gazing  at  the  she-wolf,  who  sat 
smiling  in  the  snow.  But  the  elder  leader  was  wise, 


56  WHITE  FANG 

very  wise,  in  love  even  as  in  battle.  The  younger 
leader  turned  his  head  to  lick  a  wound  on  his 
shoulder.  The  curve  of  his  neck  was  turned  toward 
his  rival.  With  his  one  eye  the  elder  saw  the  op 
portunity.  He  darted  in  low  and  closed  with  his 
fangs.  It  was  a  long,  ripping  slash,  and  deep  as 
well.  His  teeth,  in  passing,  burst  the  wall  of  the 
great  vein  of  the  throat.  Then  he  leaped  clear. 

The  young  leader  snarled  terribly,  but  his  snarl 
broke  midmost  into  a  tickling  cough.  Bleeding  and 
coughing,  already  stricken,  he  sprang  at  the  elder 
and  fought  while  life  faded  from  him,  his  legs  going 
weak  beneath  him,  the  light  of  day  dulling  on  his 
eyes,  his  blows  and  springs  falling  shorter  and 
shorter. 

And  all  the  while  the  she-wolf  sat  on  her  haunches 
and  smiled.  She  was  made  glad  in  vague  ways  by 
the  battle,  for  this  was  the  love-making  of  the  Wild, 
the  sex-tragedy  of  the  natural  world  that  was 
tragedy  only  to  those  that  died.  To  those  that  sur 
vived  it  was  not  tragedy,  but  realization  and 
achievement. 

When  the  young  leader  lay  in  the  snow  and  moved 
no  more,  One  Eye  stalked  over  to  the  she-wolf.  His 
carriage  was  one  of  mingled  triumph  and  caution. 
He  was  plainly  expectant  of  a  rebuff,  and  he  was  just 
as  plainly  surprised  when  her  teeth  did  not  flash  out 
at  him  in  anger.  For  the  first  time  she  met  him 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  FANGS  57 

with  a  kindly  manner.  She  sniffed  noses  with  him, 
and  even  condescended  to  leap  about  and  frisk  and 
play  with  him  in  quite  puppyish  fashion.  And  he, 
for  all  his  gray  years  and  sage  experience,  behaved 
quite  as  puppyishly  and  even  a  little  more  foolishly. 
Forgotten  already  were  the  vanquished  rivals 
and  the  love-tale  red-written  on  the  snow.  Forgot 
ten,  save  once,  when  old  One  Eye  stopped  for  a  mo 
ment  to  lick  his  stiffening  wounds.  Then  it  was  that 
his  lips  half  writhed  into  a  snarl,  and  the  hair  of  his 
neck  and  shoulders  involuntarily  bristled,  while  he 
half  crouched  for  a  spring,  his  claws  spasmodically 
clutching  into  the  snow-surface  for  firmer  footing. 
But  it  was  all  forgotten  the  next  moment,  as  he 
sprang  after  the  she-wolf,  who  was  coyly  leading 


a  chase  through  the  woods. 

After  that  they  ran  side  by  side,  like  good  friends 
who  have  come  to  an  understanding.  The  days 
passed  by,  and  they  kept  together,  hunting  their 
meat  and  killing  and  eating  it  in  common.  After  a 
time  the  she-wolf  began  to  grow  restless.  She 
seemed  to  be  searching  for  something  that  she  could 
not  find.  The  hollows  under  fallen  trees  seemed  to 
attract  her,  and  she  spent  much  time  nosing  about 
among  the  larger  snow-piled  crevices  in  the  rocks 
and  in  the  caves  of  overhanging  banks.  Old  One 
Eye  was  not  interested  at  all,  but  he  followed  her 
good-naturedly  in  her  quest,  and  when  her  investi- 


58  WHITE  FANG 

gations  IB.  particular  places  were  unusually  pro 
tracted,  he  would  lie  down  and  wait  until  she  was 
ready  to  go  on. 

They  did  not  remain  in  one  place,  but  travelled 
across  country  until  they  regained  the  Mackenzie 
Eiver,  down  which  they  slowly  went,  leaving  it  often 
to  hunt  game  along  the  small  streams  that  entered 
it,  but  always  returning  to  it  again.  Sometimes 
they  chanced  upon  other  wolves,  usually  in  pairs; 
but  there  was  no  friendliness  of  intercourse  dis 
played  on  either  side,  no  gladness  at  meeting,  no 
desire  to  return  to  the  pack^formation.  Several 
times  they  encountered  solitary  wolves.  These  were 
always  males,  and  they  were  pressingly  insistent  on 
joining  with  One  Eye  and  his  mate.  This  he  re 
sented,  and  when  she  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
him,  bristling  and  showing  her  teeth,  the  aspiring 
solitary  ones  would  back  off,  turn  tail,  and  continue 
on  their  lonely  way. 

One  moolight  night,  running  through  the  quiet 
forest,  One  Eye  suddenly  halted.  His  muzzle  went 
up,  his  tail  stiffened,  and  his  nostrils  dilated  as  he 
scented  the  air.  One  foot  also  he  held  up,  after 
the  manner  of  a  dog.  He  was  not  satisfied,  and 
he  continued  to  smell  the  air,  striving  to  under 
stand  the  message  borne  upon  it  to  him.  One  care 
less  sniff  had  satisfied  his  mate,  and  she  trotted  on 
to  reassure  him.  Though  he  followed  her,  he  was 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  FANGS  59 

still  dubious,  and  he  could  not  forbear  an  occasional 
halt  in  order  more  carefully  to  study  the  warning. 

She  crept  out  cautiously  on  the  edge  of  a  large 
open  space  in  the  midst  of  the  trees.  For  some  time 
she  stood  alone.  Then  One  Eye,  creeping  and  crawl 
ing,  every  sense  on  the  alert,  every  hair  radiating 
infinite  suspicion,  joined  her.  They  stood  side  by 
side,  watching  and  listening  and  smelling. 

To  their  ears  came  the  sounds  of  dogs  wrangling 
and  scuffling,  the  guttural  cries  of  men,  the  sharper 
voices  of  scolding  women,  and  once  the  shrill  and 
plaintive  cry  of  a  child.  With  the  exception  of  the 
huge  bulks  of  the  skin  lodges,  little  could  be  seen 
save  the  flames  of  the  fire,  broken  by  the  movements 
of  intervening  bodies,  and  the  smoke  rising  slowly 
on  the  quiet  air.  But  to  their  nostrils  came  the 
myriad  smells  of  an  Indian  camp,  carrying  a  story 
that  was  largely  incomprehensible  to  One  Eye,  but 
every  detail  of  which  the  she-wolf  knew. 

She  was  strangely  stirred,  and  sniffed  and  sniffed 
with  an  increasing  delight.  But  old  One  Eye  was 
doubtful.  He  betrayed  his  apprehension,  and 
started  tentatively  to  go.  She  turned  and  touched 
his  neck  with  her  muzzle  in  a  reassuring  way,  then 
regarded  the  camp  again.  A  new  wistfulness  was  in 
her  face,  but  it  was  not  the  wistfulness  of  hunger. 
She  was  thrilling  to  a  desire  that  urged  her  to  go 
forward,  to  be  in  closer  to  that  fire,  to  be  squabbling 


60  WHITE 

with  the  dogs,  and  to  be  avoiding  and  dodging  the 
stumbling  feet  of  men. 

One  Eye  moved  impatiently  beside  her;  her  un 
rest  came  back  upon  her,  and  she  knew  again  her 
pressing  need  to  find  the  thing  for  which  she 
searched.  She  turned  and  trotted  back  into  the  for 
est,  to  the  great  relief  of  One  Eye,  who  trotted  a 
little  to  the  fore  until  they  were  well  within  the 
shelter  of  the  trees. 

As  they  slid  along,  noiseless  as  shadows,  in  the 
moonlight,  they  came  upon  a  run-way.  Both  noses 
went  down  to  the  footprints  in  the  snow.  These 
footprints « were  very  fresh.  One  Eye  ran  ahead 
cautiously,  his  mate  at  his  heels.  The  broad  pads 
of  their  feet  were  spread  wide  and  in  contact  with 
the  snow  were  like  velvet.  One  Eye  caught  sight  of 
a  dim  movement  of  white  in  the  midst  of  the  white. 
His  sliding  gait  had  been  deceptively  swift,  but  it 
was  as  nothing  to  the  speed  at  which  he  now  ran. 
Before  him  was  bounding  the  faint  patch  of  white 
he  had  discovered. 

They  were  running  along  a  narrow  alley  flanked 
on  either  side  by  a  growth  of  young  spruce. 
Through  the  trees  the  mouth  of  the  alley  could  be 
seen,  opening  out  on  a  moonlight  glade.  Old  One 
Eye  was  rapidly  overhauling  the  fleeing  shape  of 
white.  Bound  by  bound  he  gained.  Now  he  was 
upon  it.  One  leap  more  and  his  teeth  would  be  sink- 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  FANGS  61 

ing  into  it.  But  that  leap  was  never  made.  High 
in  the  air,  and  straight  up,  soared  the  shape  of  white, 
now  a  struggling  snowshoe  rabbit  that  leaped  and 
bounded,  executing  a  fantastic  dance  there  above 
him  in  the  air  and  never  once  returning  to  earth. 

One  Eye  sprang  back  with  a  snort  of  sudden 
fright,  then  shrank  down  to  the  snow  and  crouched, 
snarling  threats  at  this  thing  of  fear  he  did  not  un 
derstand.  But  the  she-wolf  coolly  thrust  past  him. 
She  poised  for  a  moment,  then  sprang  for  the  danc 
ing  rabbit.  She,  too,  soared  high,  but  not  so  high 
as  the  quarry,  and  her  teeth  clipped  emptily  to 
gether  with  a  metallic  snap.  She  made  another  leap, 
and  another. 

Her  mate  had  slowly  relaxed  from  his  crouch  and 
was  watching  her.  He  now  evinced  displeasure  at 
her  repeated  failures,  and  himself  made  a  mighty 
spring  upward.  His  teeth  closed  upon  the  rabbit, 
and  he  bore  it  back  to  earth  with  him.  But  at  the 
same  time  there  was  a  suspicious  crackling  move 
ment  beside  him,  and  his  astonished  eye  saw  a  young 
spruce  sapling  bending  down  above  him  to  strike 
him.  His  jaws  let  go  their  grip,  and  he  leaped  back 
ward  to  escape  this  strange  danger,  his  lips  drawn 
back  from  his  fangs,  his  throat  snarling,  every  hair 
bristling  with  rage  and  fright.  And  in  that  mo 
ment  the  sapling  reared  its  slender  length  upright 
and  the  rabbit  soared  dancing  in  the  air  again. 


62  WHITE  FANG 

The  she-wolf  was  angry.  She  sank  her  fangs  into 
her  mate's  shoulder  in  reproof;  and  he,  frightened, 
unaware  of  what  constituted  this  new  onslaught, 
struck  back  ferociously  and  in  still  greater  fright, 
ripping  down  the  side  of  the  she-wolf 's  muzzle.  For 
him  to  resent  such  reproof  was  equally  unexpected 
to  her,  and  she  sprang  upon  him  in  snarling  indigna 
tion.  Then  he  discovered  his  mistake  and  tried  to 
placate  her.  But  she  proceeded  to  punish  him 
roundly,  until  he  gave  over  all  attempts  at  placation, 
and  whirled  in  a  circle,  his  head  away  from  her,  his 
shoulders  receiving  the  punishment  of  her  teeth. 

In  the  meantime  the  rabbit  danced  above  them  in 
the  air.  The  she-wolf  sat  down  in  the  snow,  and 
old  One  Eye,  now  more  in  fear  of  his  mate  than  of 
the  mysterious  sapling,  again  sprang  for  the  rabbit. 
As  he  sank  back  with  it  between  his  teeth,  he  kept 
his  eye  on  the  sapling.  As  before,  it  followed  him 
back  to  earth.  He  crouched  down  under  the  impend 
ing  blow,  his  hair  bristling,  but  his  teeth  still  keep 
ing  tight  hold  of  the  rabbit.  But  the  blow  did  not 
fall.  The  sapling  remained  bent  above  him.  When 
he  moved  it  moved,  and  he  growled  at  it  through 
his  clenched  jaws;  when  he  remained  still,  it  re 
mained  still,  and  he  concluded  it  was  safer  to  con 
tinue  remaining  still.  Yet  the  warm  blood  of  the 
rabbit  tasted  good  in  his  mouth. 

It  was  his  mate  who  relieved  him  from  the  quan- 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  FANGS  0  J 

dary  in  which  he  found  himself.  She  took  the  rab 
bit  from  him,  and  while  the  sapling  swayed  and 
teetered  threateningly  above  her  she  calmly  gnawed 
off  the  rabbit's  head.  At  once  the  sapling  shot  up, 
and  after  that  gave  no  more  trouble,  remaining  in 
the  decorous  and  perpendicular  position  in  which 
nature  had  intended  it  to  grow.  Then,  between 
them,  the  she-wolf  and  One  Eye  devoured  the  game 
which  the  mysterious  sapling  had  caught  for  them. 

There  were  other  run-ways  and  alleys  where  rab 
bits  were  hanging  in  the  air,  and  the  wolf -pair  pros 
pected  them  all,  the  she-wolf  leading  the  way,  old 
One  Eye  following  and  observant,  learning  the 
method  of  robbing  snares — a  knowledge  destined  to 
stand  him  in  good  stead  in  the  days  to  come. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  LAIR 

FOE  two  days  the  she-wolf  and  One  Eye  hung 
about  the  Indian  camp.  He  was  worried  and  appre 
hensive,  yet  the  camp  lured  his  mate  and  she  was 
loath  to  depart.  But  when,  one  morning,  the  air  was 
rent  with  the  report  of  a  rifle  close  at  hand,  and  a 
bullet  smashed  against  a  tree  trunk  several  inches 
from  One  Eye's  head,  they  hesitated  no  more,  but 
went  off  on  a  long,  swinging  lope  that  put  quick 
miles  between  them  and  the  danger. 

They  did  not  go  far — a  couple  of  days'  journey. 
The  she-wolf's  need  to  find  the  thing  for  which  she 
searched  had  now  become  imperative.  She  was  get 
ting  very  heavy,  and  could  run  but  slowly.  Once, 
in  the  pursuit  of  a  rabbit,  which  she  ordinarily  would 
have  caught  with  ease,  she  gave  over  and  lay  down 
and  rested.  One  Eye  came  to  her;  but  when  he 
touched  her  neck  gently  with  his  muzzle  she  snapped 
at  him  with  such  quick  fierceness  that  he  tumbled 
over  backward  and  cut 'a  ridiculous  figure  in  his  ef 
fort  to  escape  her  teeth.  Her  temper  was  now 
shorter  than  ever;  but  he  had  become  more  patient 
than  ever  and  more  solicitous. 

64 


THE  LAIR  65 

And  then  she  found  the  thing  for  which  she  sought. 
It  was  a  few  miles  up  a  small  stream  that  in  the 
sumer  time  flowed  into  the  Mackenzie,  but  that  then 
was  frozen  over  and  frozen  down  to  its  rocky  bot 
tom — a  dead  stream  of  solid  white  from  source  to 
mouth.  The  she-wolf  was  trotting  wearily  along, 
her  mate  well  in  advance,  when  she  came  upon  the 
overhanging,  high  clay-bank.  She  turned  aside  and 
trotted  over  to  it.  The  wear  and  tear  of  spring 
storms  and  melting  snows  had  underwashed  the  bank 
and  in  one  place  had  made  a  small  cave  out  of  a  nar 
row  fissure. 

She  paused  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave  and  looked 
the  wall  over  carefully.  Then,  on  one  side  and  the 
other,  she  ran  along  the  base  of  the  wall  to  where  its 
abrupt  bulk  merged  from  the  softer-lined  landscape. 
Returning  to  the  cave,  she  entered  its  narrow  mouth. 
For  a  short  three  feet  she  was  compelled  to  crouch, 
then  the  walls  widened  and  rose  higher  in  a  little 
round  chamber  nearly  six  feet  in  diameter.  The 
roof  barely  cleared  her  head.  It  was  dry  and  cosey. 
She  inspected  it  with  painstaking  care,  while  One 
Eye,  who  had  returned,  stood  in  the  entrance  and 
patiently  watched  her.  She  dropped  her  head,  with 
her  nose  to  the  ground  and  directed  toward  a  point 
near  to  her  closely  bunched  feet,  and  around  this 
point  she  circled  several  times;  then,  with  a  tired 
sigh  that  was  almost  a  grunt,  she  curled  her  body  in, 


66  WHITE  FANG 

relaxed  her  legs,  and  dropped  down,  her  head  to 
ward  the  entrance.  One  Eye,  with  pointed,  in 
terested  ears,  laughed  at  her,  and  beyond,  outlined 
against  the  white  light,  she  could  see  the  brush  of 
his  tail  waving  good-naturedly.  Her  own  ears,  with 
a  snuggling  movement,  laid  their  sharp  points  back 
ward  and  down  against  the  head  for  a  moment, 
while  her  mouth  opened  and  her  tongue  lolled  peace 
ably  out,  and  in  this  way  she  expressed  that  she  was 
pleased  and  satisfied. 

One  Eye  was  hungry.  Though  he  lay  down  in 
the  entrance  and  slept,  his  sleep  was  fitful.  He  kept 
awaking  and  cocking  his  ears  at  the  bright  world 
without,  where  the  April  sun  was  blazing  across  the 
snow.  When  he  dozed,  upon  his  ears  would  steal 
the  faint  whispers  of  hidden  trickles  of  running 
water,  and  he  would  rouse  and  listen  intently.  The 
sun  had  come  back,  and  all  the  awakening  North 
land  world  was  calling  to  him.  Life  was  stirring. 
The  feel  of  spring  was  in  the  air,  the  feel  of  grow 
ing  life  under  the  snow,  of  sap  ascending  in  the  trees, 
of  buds  bursting  the  shackles  of  the  frost. 

He  cast  anxious  glances  at  his  mate,  but  she 
showed  no  desire  to  get  up.  He  looked  outside,  and 
half  a  dozen  snow-birds  fluttered  across  his  field  of 
vision.  He  started  to  get  up,  then  looked  back  to  his 
mate  again,  and  settled  down  and  dozed.  A  shrill 
and  minute  singing  stole  upon  his  hearing.  Once, 


THE  LAIR  67 

and  twice,  he  sleepily  brushed  his  nose  with  his  paw. 
Then  he  woke  up.  There,  buzzing  in  the  air  at  the 
tip  of  his  nose,  was  a  lone  mosquito.  It  was  a  full- 
grown  mosquito,  one  that  had  lain  frozen  in  a  dry 
log  all  winter  and  that  had  now  been  thawed  out 
by  the  sun.  He  could  resist  the  call  of  the  world  no 
longer.  Besides,  he  was  hungry. 

He  crawled  over  to  his  mate  and  tried  to  persuade 
her  to  get  up.  But  she  only  snarled  at  him,  and  he 
walked  out  alone  into  the  bright  sunshine  to  find  the 
snow-surface  soft  underfoot  and  the  travelling  diffi 
cult.  He  went  up  the  frozen  bed  of  the  stream, 
where  the  snow,  shaded  by  the  trees,  was  yet  hard 
and  crystalline.  He  was  gone  eight  hours,  and  he 
came  back  through  the  darkness  hungrier  than  when 
he  had  started.  He  had  found  game,  but  he  had 
not  caught  it.  He  had  broken  through  the  melting 
snow-crust,  and  wallowed,  while  the  snowshoe  rab 
bits  had  skimmed  along  on  top  lightly  as  ever. 

He  paused  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave  with  a  sudden 
shock  of  suspicion.  Faint,  strange  sounds  came 
from  within.  They  were  sounds  not  made  by  his 
mate,  and  yet  they  were  remotely  familiar.  He 
bellied  cautiously  inside  and  was  met  by  a  warning 
snarl  from  the  she-wolf.  This  he  received  without 
perturbation,  though  he  obeyed  it  by  keeping  his 
distance;  but  he  remained  interested  in  the  other 
sounds — faint,  muffled  sobbings  and  slubberings.  . 


68  WHITE  FANG 

His  mate  warned  him  irritably  away,  and  he 
curled  up  and  slept  in  the  entrance.  When  morning 
came  and  a  dim  light  pervaded  the  lair,  he  again 
sought  after  the  source  of  the  remotely  familiar 
sounds.  There  was  a  new  note  in  his  mate 's  warn 
ing  snarl.  It  was  a  jealous  note,  and  he  was  very 
careful  in  keeping  a  respectful  distance.  Neverthe 
less,  he  made  out,  sheltering  between  her  legs  against 
the  length  of  her  body,  five  strange  little  bundles  of 
life,  very  feeble,  very  helpless,  making  tiny  whimper 
ing  noises,  with  eyes  that  did  not  open  to  the  light. 
He  was  surprised.  It  was  not  the  first  time  in  his 
long  and  successful  life  that  this  thing  had  happened. 
It  had  happened  many  times,  yet  each  time  it  was  as 
fresh  a  surprise  as  ever  to  him. 

His  mate  looked  at  him  anxiously.  Every  little 
while  she  emitted  a  low  growl,  and  at  times,  when 
it  seemed  to  her  he  approached  too  near,  the  growl 
shot  up  in  her  throat  to  a  sharp  snarl.  Of  her  own 
experience  she  had  no  memory  of  the  thing  happen 
ing;  but  in  her  instinct,  which  was  the  experience 
of  all  the  mothers  of  wolves,  there  lurked  a  memory 
of  fathers  that  had  eaten  their  new-born  and  helpless 
progeny.  It  manifested  itself  as  a  fear  strong 
within  her,  that  made -her  prevent  One  Eye  from 
more  closely  inspecting  the  cubs  he  had  fathered. 

But  there  was  no  danger.  Old  One  Eye  was  feel 
ing  the  urge  of  an  impulse,  that  was,  in  turn,  an 


THE  LAIR  69 

instinct  that  had  come  down  to  him  from  all  the 
fathers  of  wolves.  He  did  not  question  it,  nor  puz 
zle  over  it.  It  was  there,  in  the  fibre  of  his  being; 
and  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that 
he  should  obey  it  by  turning  his  back  on  his  new-born 
family  and  by  trotting  out  and  away  on  the  meat- 
trail  whereby  he  lived. 

Five  or  six  miles  from  the  lair,  the  stream  divided, 
its  forks  going  off  among  the  mountains  at  a  right 
angle.  Here,  leading  up  the  left  fork,  he  came  upon 
a  fresh  track.  He  smelled  it  and  found  it  so  recent 
that  he  crouched  swiftly,  and  looked  in  the  direction 
in  which  it  disappeared.  Then  he  turned  deliber 
ately  and  took  the  right  fork.  The  footprint  was 
much  larger  than  the  one  his  own  feet  made,  and  he 
knew  that  in  the  wake  of  such  a  trail  there  was  little 
meat  for  him. 

Half  a  mile  up  the  right  fork,  his  quick  ears  caught 
the  sound  of  gnawing  teeth.  He  stalked  the  quarry 
and  found  it  to  be  a  porcupine,  standing  upright 
against  a  tree  and  trying  his  teeth  on  the  bark.  One 
Eye  approached  carefully  but  hopelessly.  He  knew 
the  breed,  though  he  had  never  met  it  so  far  north 
before;  and  never  in  his  long  life  had  porcupine 
served  him  for  a  meal.  But  he  had  long  since 
learned  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  Chance,  or 
Opportunity,  and  he  continued  to  draw  near.  There 
was  never  any  telling  what  might  happen,  for  with 


70  WHITE  FANG 

live  things  events  were  somehow  always  happening 
differently. 

The  porcupine  rolled  itself  into  a  ball,  radiating 
long,  sharp  needles  in  all  directions  that  defied  at 
tack.  In  his  youth  One  Eye  had  once  sniffed  too 
near  a  similar,  apparently  inert  ball  of  quills,  and 
had  the  tail  flick  out  suddenly  in  his  face.  One  quill 
he  had  carried  away  in  his  muzzle,  where  it  had  re 
mained  for  weeks,  a  rankling  flame,  until  it  finally 
worked  out.  So  he  lay  down,  in  a  comfortable 
crouching  position,  his  nose  fully  a  foot  away,  and 
out  of  the  line  of  the  tail.  Thus  he  waited,  keeping 
perfectly  quiet.  There  was  no  telling.  Something 
might  happen.  The  porcupine  might  unroll.  There 
might  be  opportunity  for  a  deft  and  ripping  thrust 
of  paw  into  the  tender,  unguarded  belly. 

But  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he  arose,  growled 
wrathfully  at  the  motionless  ball,  and  trotted  on. 
He  had  waited  too  often  and  futilely  in  the  past  for 
porcupines  to  unroll,  to  waste  any  more  time.  He 
continued  up  the  right  fork.  The  day  wore  along, 
and  nothing  rewarded  his  hunt. 

The  urge  of  his  awakened  instinct  of  fatherhood 
was  strong  upon  him.  He  must  find  meat.  In  the 
afternoon  he  blundered  upon  a  ptarmigan.  He 
came  out  of  a  thicket  and  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  the  slow-witted  bird.  It  was  sitting  on  a  log, 
not  a  foot  beyond  the  end  of  his  nose.  Each  saw  the 


THE  LAIR  71 

other.  The  bird  made  a  startled  rise,  but  he  struck 
it  with  his  paw,  and  smashed  it  down  to  earth,  then 
pounced  upon  it,  and  caught  it  in  his  teeth  as  it 
scuttled  across  the  snow  trying  to  rise  in  the  air 
again.  As  his  teeth  crunched  through  the  tender 
flesh  and  fragile  bones,  he  began  naturally  to  eat. 
Then  he  remembered,  and,  turning  on  the  back-track, 
started  for  home,  carrying  the  ptarmigan  in  his 
mouth. 

A  mile  above  the  forks,  running  velvet-footed  as 
was  his  custom,  a  gliding  shadow  that  cautiously 
prospected  each  new  vis>ta  of  the  trail,  he  came  upon 
later  imprints  of  the  large  tracks  he  had  discovered 
in  the  early  morning.  As  the  track  led  his  way,  he 
followed,  prepared  to  meet  the  maker  of  it  at  every 
turn  of  the  stream. 

He  slid  his  head  around  a  corner  of  rock,  where 
began  an  unusually  large  bend  in  the  stream,  and  his 
quick  eyes  made  out  something  that  sent  him  crouch 
ing  swiftly  down.  It  was  the  maker  of  the  track, 
a  large  female  lynx.  She  was  crouching  as  he  had 
crouched  once  that  day,  in  front  of  her  the  tight- 
rolled  ball  of  quills.  If  he  had  been  a  gliding 
shadow  before,  he  now  became  the  ghost  of  such  a 
shadow,  as  he  crept  and  circled  around,  and  came  up 
well  to  leeward  of  the  silent,  motionless  pair. 

He  lay  down  in  the  snow,  depositing  the  ptarmigan 
beside  him,  and  with  eyes  peering  through  the 


72  WHITE  FANG 

needles  of  a  low-growing  spruce  lie  watched  the  play 
of  life  before  him — the  waiting  lynx  and  the  waiting 
porcupine,  each  intent  on  life;  and,  such  was  the 
curiousness  of  the  game,  the  way  of  life  for  one  lay 
in  the  eating  of  the  other,  and  the  way  of  life  for  the 
other  lay  in  being  not  eaten.  While  old  One  Eye,  the 
wolf,  crouching  in  the  covert,  played  his  part,  too, 
in  the  game,  waiting  for  some  strange  freak  of 
Chance,  that  might  help  him  on  the  meat-trail  which 
was  his  way  of  life. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  an  hour ;  and  nothing  hap 
pened.  The  ball  of  quills  might  have  been  a  stone 
for  all  it  moved ;  the  lynx  might  have  been  frozen  to 
marble;  and  old  One  Eye  might  have  been  dead. 
Yet  all  three  animals  were  keyed  to  a  tenseness  of 
living  that  was  almost  painful,  and  scarcely  ever 
would  it  come  to  them  to  be  more  alive  than  they 
were  then  in  their  seeming  petrifaction. 

One  Eye  moved  slightly  and  peered  forth  with 
increased  eagerness.  Something  was  happening. 
The  porcupine  had  at  last  decided  that  its  enemy  had 
gone  away.  Slowly,  cautiously,  it  was  unrolling  its 
ball  of  impregnable  armor.  It  was  agitated  by  no 
tremor  of  anticipation.  Slowly,  slowly,  the  bristling 
ball  straightened  out  and  lengthened.  One  Eye, 
watching,  felt  a  sudden  moistness  in  his  mouth  and 
a  drooling  of  saliva,  involuntary,  excited  by  the  liv- 


THE  LAIR  73 

ing  meat  that  was  spreading  itself  like  a  repast  be 
fore  him. 

Not  quite  entirely  had  the  porcupine  unrolled  when 
it  discovered  its  enemy.  In  that  instant  the  lynx 
struck.  The  blow  was  like  a  flash  of  light.  The 
paw,  with  rigid  claws  curving  like  talons,  shot  under 
the  tender  belly  and  came  back  with  a  swift  ripping 
movement.  Had  the  porcupine  been  entirely  un 
rolled,  or  had  it  not  discovered  its  enemy  a  fraction 
of  a  second  before  the  blow  was  struck,  the  paw 
would  have  escaped  unscathed;  but  a  side-flick  of 
the  tail  sank  sharp  quills  into  it  as  it  was  withdrawn. 

Everything  had  happened  at  once, — the  blow,  the 
counter-blow,  the  squeal  of  agony  from  the  porcu 
pine,  the  big  cat 's  squall  of  sudden  hurt  and  astonish 
ment.  One  Eye  half  arose  in  his  excitement,  his 
ears  up,  his  tail  straight  out  and  quivering  behind 
him.  The  lynx's  bad  temper  got  the  best  of  her. 
She  sprang  savagely  at  the  thing  that  had  hurt  her. 
But  the  porcupine,  squealing  and  grunting,  with 
disrupted  anatomy  trying  feebly  to  roll  up  into  its 
ball-protection,  flicked  out  its  tail  again,  and  again 
the  big  cat  squalled  with  hurt  and  astonishment. 
Then  she  fell  to  backing  away  and  sneezing,  her  nose 
bristling  with  quills  like  a  monstrous  pin-cushion. 
She  brushed  her  nose  with  her  paws,  trying  to  dis 
lodge  the  fiery  darts,  thrust  it  into  the  snow,  and 


74  WHITE  FANG 

rubbed  it  against  twigs  and  branches,  all  the  time 
leaping  about,  ahead,  sidewise,  up  and  down,  in  a 
frenzy  of  pain  and  fright. 

She  sneezed  continually,  and  her  stub  of  a  tail 
was  doing  its  best  toward  lashing  about  by  giving 
quick,  violent  jerks.  She  quit  her  antics,  and 
quieted  down  for  a  long  minute.  One  Eye  watched. 
And  even  he  could  not  repress  a  start  and  an  in 
voluntary  bristling  of  hair  along  his  back  when  she 
suddenly  leaped,  without  warning,  straight  up  in  the 
air,  at  the  same  time  emitting  a  long  and  most  ter 
rible  squall.  Then  she  sprang  away,  up  the  trail, 
squalling  with  every  leap  she  made. 

It  was  not  until  her  racket  had  faded  away  in  the 
distance  and  died  out  that  One  Eye  ventured  forth. 
He  walked  as  delicately  as  though  all  the  snow  were 
carpeted  with  porcupine  quills,  erect  and  ready  to 
pierce  the  soft  pads  of  his  feet.  The  porcupine  met 
his  approach  with  a  furious  squealing  and  a  clashing 
of  its  long  teeth.  It  had  managed  to  roll  up  in  a 
ball  again,  but  it  was  not  quite  the  old  compact  ball ; 
its  muscles  were  too  much  torn  for  that.  It  had 
been  ripped  almost  in  half,  and  was  still  bleeding 
profusely. 

One  Eye  scooped  out  mouthfuls  of  the  blood- 
soaked  snow,  and  chewed  and  tasted  and  swallowed. 
This  served  as  a  relish,  and  his  hunger  increased 
mirrhtily;  but  he  was  too  old  in  the  world  to  forget 


THE  LAIR  75 

his  caution.  He  waited.  He  lay  down  and  waited, 
while  the  porcupine  grated  its  teeth  and  uttered 
grunts  and  sobs  and  occasional  sharp  little  squeals. 
In  a  little  while,  One  Eye  noticed  that  the  quills 
were  drooping  and  that  a  great  quivering  had  set 
up.  The  quivering  came  to  an  end  suddenly.  There 
was  a  final  defiant  clash  of  the  long  teeth.  Then  all 
the  quills  drooped  quite  down,  and  the  body  relaxed 
and  moved  no  more. 

With  a  nervous,  shrinking  paw,  One  Eye  stretched 
out  the  porcupine  to  its  full  length  and  turned  it  over 
on  its  back.  Nothing  had  happened.  It  was  surely 
dead.  He  studied  it  intently  for  a  moment,  then 
took  a  careful  grip  with  his  teeth  and  started  off 
down  the  stream,  partly  carrying,  partly  dragging 
the  porcupine,  with  head  turned  to  the  side  so  as  to 
avoid  stepping  on  the  prickly  mass.  He  recollected 
something,  dropped  the  burden,  and  trotted  back  to 
where  he  had  left  the  ptarmigan.  He  did  not  hesi 
tate  a  moment.  He  knew  clearly  what  was  to  be 
done,  and  this  he  did  by  promptly  eating  the 
ptarmigan.  Then  he  returned  and  took  up  his  bur 
den. 

When  he  dragged  the  result  of  his  day 's  hunt  into 
the  cave,  the  she-wolf  inspected  it,  turned  her  muzzle 
to  him,  and  lightly  licked  him  on  the  neck.  But  the 
next  instant  she  was  warning  him  away  from  the 
<mbs  with  a  snarl  that  was  less  harsh  than  usual  and 


76  WHITE  FANG 

that  was  more  apologetic  than  menacing.  Her  in 
stinctive  fear  of  the  father  of  her  progeny  was  ton 
ing  down.  He  was  behaving  as  a  wolf  father  should, 
and  manifesting  no  unholy  desire  to  devour  the 
young  lives  she  had  brought  into  the  world. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   GRAY   CUB 

HE  was  different  from  his  brothers  and  sisters. 
Their  hair  already  betrayed  the  reddish  hue  in 
herited  from  their  mother,  the  she-wolf;  while  he 
alone,  in  this  particular,  took  after  his  father.  He 
was  the  one  little  gray  cub  of  the  litter.  He  had 
bred  true  to  the  straight  wolf-stock — in  fact,  he  had 
bred  true,  physically,  to  old  One  Eye  himself,  with 
but  a  single  exception,  and  that  was  that  he  had  two 
eyes  to  his  father's  one. 

The  gray  cub's  eyes  had  not  been  open  long,  yet 
already  he  could  see  with  steady  clearness.  And 
while  his  eyes  were  still  closed,  he  had  felt,  tasted, 
and  smelled.  He  knew  his  two  brothers  and  his  two 
sisters  very  well.  He  had  begun  to  romp  with  them 
in  a  feeble,  awkward  way,  and  even  to  squabble,  his 
little  throat  vibrating  with  a  queer  rasping  noise, 
(the  forerunner  of  the  growl),  as  he  worked  himself 
into  a  passion.  And  long  before  his  eyes  had 
opened,  he  had  learned  by  touch,  taste,  and  smell  to 
know  his  mother — a  fount  of  warmth  and  liquid  food 
and  tenderness.  She  possessed  a  gentle,  caressing 

77 


78  WHITE  FANG 

tongue  that  soothed  him  when  it  passed  over  his 
soft  little  body,  and  that  impelled  him  to  snuggle 
close  against  her  and  to  doze  off  to  sleep. 

Most  of  the  first  month  of  his  life  had  been  passed 
thus  in  sleeping;  but  now  he  could  see  quite  well, 
and  he  stayed  awake  for  longer  periods  of  time,  and 
he  was  coming  to  learn  his  world  quite  well.  His 
world  was  gloomy ;  but  he  did  not  know  that,  for  he 
knew  no  other  world.  It  was  dim-lighted;  but  his 
eyes  had  never  had  to  adjust  themselves  to  any  other 
light.  His  world  was  very  small.  Its  limits  were 
the  walls  of  the  lair;  but  as  he  had  no  knowledge 
of  the  wide  world  outside,  he  was  never  oppressed  by 
the  narrow  confines  of  his  existence. 

But  he  had  early  discovered  that  one  wall  of  his 
world  was  different  from  the  rest.  This  was  the 
mouth  of  the  cave  and  the  source  of  light.  He  had 
discovered  that  it  was  different  from  the  other  walls 
long  before  he  had  any  thoughts  of  his  own,  any  con 
scious  volitions.  It  had  been  an  irresistible  attrac 
tion  before  ever  his  eyes  opened  and  looked  upon 
it.  The  light  from  it  had  beat  upon  his  sealed  lids, 
and  the  eyes  and  the  optic  nerves  had  pulsated  to 
little,  sparklike  flashes,  warm-colored  and  strangely 
pleasing.  The  life  of 'his  body,  and  of  every  fibre 
of  his  body,  the  life  that  was  the  very  substance  of 
his  body  and  that  was  apart  from  his  own  personal 
life,  had  yearned  toward  this  light  and  urged  his 


THE  GRAY  CUB  79 

body  toward  it  in  the  same  way  that  the  cunning 
chemistry  of  a  plant  urges  it  toward  the  sun. 

Always,  in  the  beginning,  before  his  conscious  life 
dawned,  he  had  crawled  toward  the  mouth  of  the 
cave.  And  in  this  his  brothers  and  sisters  wrere  one 
with  him.  Never,  in  that  period,  did  any  of  them 
crawl  toward  the  dark  corners  of  the  back-wall. 
The  light  drew  them  as  if  they  were  plants;  the 
chemistry  of  the  life  that  composed  them  demanded 
the  light  as  a  necessity  of  being;  and  their  little 
puppet-bodies  crawled  blindly  and  chemically,  like 
the  tendrils  of  a  vine.  Later  on,  when  each  devel 
oped  individuality  and  became  personally  conscious 
of  impulsions  and  desires,  the  attraction  of  the  light 
increased.  They  were  always  crawling  and  sprawl 
ing  toward  it,  and  being  driven  back  from  it  by  their 
mother. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  the  gray  cub  learned  other 
attributes  of  his  mother  than  the  soft,  soothing 
tongue.  In  his  insistent  crawling  toward  the  light, 
he  discovered  in  her  a  nose  that  with  a  sharp  nudge 
administered  rebuke,  and  later,  a  paw,  that  crushed 
him  down  or  rolled  him  over  and  over  with  swift, 
calculating  stroke.  Thus  he  learned  hurt;  and  on 
top  of  it  he  learned  to  avoid  hurt,  first,  by  not  in 
curring  the  risk  of  it;  and  second,  when  he  had  in 
curred  the  risk,  by  dodging  an'd  by  retreating. 
These  were  conscious  actions,  and  were  the  results 


80  WHITE  FANG 

of  his  first  generalizations  upon  the  world.  Before 
that  he  had  recoiled  automatically  from  hurt,  as  he 
had  crawled  automatically  toward  the  light.  After 
that  he  recoiled  from  hurt  because  he  knew  that  it 
was  hurt. 

He  was  a  fierce  little  cub.  So  were  his  brothers 
and  sisters.  It  was  to  be  expected.  He  was  a  car 
nivorous  animal.  He  came  of  a  breed  of  meat- 
killers  and  meat-eaters.  His  father  and  mother 
lived  wholly  upon  meat.  The  milk  he  had  sucked 
with  his  first  flickering  life  was  milk  transformed 
directly  from  meat,  and  now,  at  a  month  old,  when 
his  eyes  had  been  open  for  but  a  week,  he  was  be 
ginning  himself  to  eat  meat — meat  half -digested  by 
the  she-wolf  and  disgorged  for  the  five  growing  cubs 
that  already  made  too  great  demand  upon  her  breast. 

But  he  was,  further,  the  fiercest  of  the  litter.  He 
could  make  a  louder  rasping  growl  than  any  of  them. 
His  tiny  rages  were  much  more  terrible  than  theirs. 
It  was  he  that  first  learned  the  trick  of  rolling  a 
fellow-cub  over  with  a  cunning  paw-stroke.  And  it 
was  he  that  first  gripped  another  cub  by  the  ear  and 
pulled  and  tugged  and  growled  through  jaws  tight- 
clenched.  And  certainly  it  was  he  that  caused  the 
mother  the  most  trouble  in  keeping  her  litter  from 
the  mouth  of  the  cave. 

The  fascination  of  the  light  for  the  gray  cub  in 
creased  from  day  to  day.  He  was  perpetually  de- 


THE  GRAY  CUB  81 

parting  on  yard-long  adventures  toward  the  cave's 
entrance,  and  as  perpetually  being  driven  back. 
Only  he  did  not  know  it  for  an  entrance.  He  did  not 
know  anything  about  entrances — passages  whereby 
one  goes  from  one  place  to  another  place.  He  did 
not  know  any  other  place,  much  less  of  a  way  to  get 
there.  So  to  him  the  entrance  of  the  cave  was  a 
wall — a  wall  of  light.  As  the  sun  was  to  the  outside 
dweller,  this  wall  w^as  to  him  the  sun  of  his  world. 
It  attracted  him  as  a  candle  attracts  a  moth.  He 
was  always-  striving  to  attain  it.  The  life  that  was 
so  swiftly  expanding  within  him,  urged  him  continu 
ally  toward  the  wall  of  -light.  The  life  that  was 
within  him  knew  that  it  was  the  one  way  out,  the 
way  he  was  predestined  to  tread.  But  he  himself 
did  not  know  anything  about  it.  He  did  not  know 
there  was  any  outside  at  all. 

There  was  one  strange  thing  about  this  wall  of 
light.  His  father  (he  had  already  come  to  recog 
nize  his  father  as  the  one  other  dweller  in  the  world, 
a  creature  like  his  mother,  who  slept  near  the  light 
and  was  a  bringer  of  meat) — his  father  had  a  way  of 
walking  right  into  the  white  far  wall  and  disap 
pearing.  The  gray  cub  could  not  understand  this. 
Though  never  permitted  by  his  mother  to  approach 
that  wall,  he  had  approached  the  other  walls,  and  en 
countered  hard  obstruction  on  the  end  of  his  tender 
nose.  This  hurt.  And  after  several  such  adven- 


82  WHITE  FANG 

tures,  he  left  the  walls  alone.  Without  thinking- 
about  it,  he  accepted  this  disappearing  into  the  wall 
as  a  peculiarity  of  his  father,  as  milk  and  half-di 
gested  meat  were  peculiarities  of  his  mother. 

In  fact,  the  gray  cub  was  not  given  to  thinking— 
at  least,  to  the  kind  of  thinking  customary  of  men. 
His  brain  worked  in  dim  ways.  Yet  his  conclusions 
were  as  sharp  and  distinct  as  those  achieved  by  men. 
He  had  a  method  of  accepting  things,  without  ques 
tioning  the  why  and  wherefore.  In  reality,  this  was 

«—-~-  •— '~""^ 

the  act  of  classification.  He  was  never  disturbed 
over  wlfiy  a  thing  happened.  How  it  happened  was 
sufficient  for  him.  Thus,  when  he  had  bumped  his 
nose  on  the  back-wall  a  few  times  he  accepted  that 
he  would  not  disappear  into  walls.  In  the  same 
way  he  accepted  that  his  father  could  disappear 
into  walls.  But  he  was  not  in  the  least  disturbed 
by  desire  to  find  out  the  reason  for  the  difference 
between  his  father  and  himself.  Logic  and  physics 
were  no  part  of  his  mental  make-up. 

Like  most  creatures  of  the  Wild,  he  early  ex 
perienced  famine.  There  came  a  time  when  not  only 
did  the  meat-supply  cease,  but  the  milk  no  longer 
came  from  his  mother's  breast.  At  first,  the  cubs 
whimpered  and  cried, -but  for  the  most  part  they 
slept.  It  was  not  long  before  they  were  reduced  to 
a  coma  of  hunger.  There  were  no  more  spats  and 
squabbles,  no  more  tiny  rages  nor  attempts  at  growl- 


THE  GRAY  CUB  83 

ing;  while  the  adventures  toward  the  far  white  wall 
ceased  altogether.  The  cubs  slept,  while  the  life 
that  was  in  them  flickered  and  died  down.* 

One  Eye  was  desperate.  He  ranged  far  and  wide, 
and  slept  but  little  in  the  lair  that  had  now  become 
cheerless  and  miserable.  The  she-wolf,  too,  left  her 
litter  and  went  out  in  search  of  meat.  In  the  first 
days  after  the  birth  of  the  cubs,  One  Eye  had  jour 
neyed  several  times  back  to  the  Indian  camp  and 
robbed  the  rabbit  snares;  but,  with  the  melting  of 
the  snow  and  the  opening  of  the  streams,  the  Indian 
camp  had  moved  away,  and  that  source  of  supply 
was  closed  to  him. 

When  the  gray  cub  came  back  to  life  and  again 
took  interest  in  the  far  white  wall,  he  found  that 
the  population  of  his  world  had  been  reduced.  Only 
one  sister  remained  to  him.  The  rest  were  gone. 
As  he  grew  stronger,  he  found  himself  compelled 
to  play  alone,  for  the  sister  no  longer  lifted  her  head 
nor  moved  about.  His  little  body  rounded  out  with 
the  meat  he  now  ate ;  but  the  food  had  come  too  late 
for  her.  She  slept  continuously,  a  tiny  skeleton 
flung  round  with  skin  in  which  the  flame  flickered 
lower  and  lower  and  at  last  went  out. 

Then  there  came  a  time  when  the  gray  cub  no 
longer  saw  his  father  appearing  and  disappearing 
in  the  wall  nor  lying  down  asleep  in  the  entrance. 
This  had  happened  at  the  end  of  a  second  and  less 


84  WHITE  FANG 

severe  famine.  The  she-wolf  knew  why  One  Eye 
never  came  back,  but  there  was  no  way  by  which 
she  could  tell  what  she  had  seen  to  the  gray  cub. 
Hunting  herself  for  meat,  up  the  left  fork  of  the 
stream  where  lived  the  lynx,  she  had  followed  a 
day-old  trail  of  One  Eye.  And  she  had  found  him, 
or  what  remained  of  him,  at  the  end  of  the  trail. 
There  were  many  signs  of  the  battle  that  had  been 
fought,  and  of  the  lynx's  withdrawal  to  her  lair 
after  having  won  the  victory.  Before  she  went 
away,  the  she-wolf  had  found  this  lair,  but  the  signs 
told  her  that  the  lynx  was  inside,  and  she  had  not 
dared  to  venture  in. 

After  that,  the  she-wolf  in  her  hunting  avoided  the 
left  fork.  For  she  know  that  in  the  lynx's  lair  was  a 
litter  of  kittens,  and  she  knew  the  lynx  for  a  fierce, 
bad-tempered  creature  and  a  terrible  fighter.  It 
was  all  very  well  for  half  a  dozen  wolves  to  drive 
a  lynx,  spitting  and  bristling,  up  a  tree;  but  it  was 
quite  a  different  matter  for  a  lone  wolf  to  encounter 
a  lynx — especially  when  the  lynx  was  known  to  have 
a  litter  of  hungry  kittens  at  her  back. 

But  the  Wild  is  the  Wild,  and  motherhood  is 
motherhood,  at  all  times  fiercely  protective  whether 
in  the  Wild  or  out  of 'it;  and  the  time  was  to  come 
when  the  she-wolf,  for  her  gray  cub's  sake,  would 
venture  the  left  fork,  and  the  lair  in  the  rocks,  and 
the  lynx's  wrath. 


CHAPTEE  IV 

THE   WALL   OF   THE    WORLD 

BY  the  time  his  mother  began  leaving  the  cave  on 
hunting  expeditions,  the  cub  had  earned  well  the 
law  that  forbade  his  approaching  the  entrance. 
Not  only  had  this  law  been  forcibly  and  many  times 
impressed  on  him  by  his  mother's  nose  and  paw,  but 
in  him  the  instinct  of  fear  was  developing.  Never, 
in  his  brief  cave-life,  had  he  encountered  anything  of 
which  to  be  afraid.  Yet  fear  was  in  him.  It  had 
come  down  to  him  from  a  remote  ancestry  through 
a  thousand  thousand  lives.  It  was  a  heritage  he 
had  received  directly  from  One  Eye  and  the  she- 
wolf  ;  but  to  them,  in  turn,  it  had  been  passed  down 
through  all  the  generations  of  wolves  that  had  gone 
before.  Fear! — that  legacy  of  the  Wild  which  no 
animal  may  escape  nor  exchange  for  pottage. 

So  the  gray  cub  knew  fear,  though  he  knew  not  the 
stuff  of  which  fear  was  made.  Possibly  he  accepted 
it  as  one  of  the  restrictions  of  life.  For  he  had 
already  learned  that  there  were  such  restrictions. 
Hunger  he  had  known;  and  when  he  could  not  ap 
pease  his  hunger  he  had  felt  restriction.  The  hard 

85 


86  NY  HIT K  FANCJ 

obstruction  of  the  cave-wall,  the  sharp  nudge  of  his 
mother's  nose,  the  smashing  stroke  of  her  paw,  the 
hunger  unappeased  of  several  famines,  had  borne 
in  upon  him  that  all  was  not  freedom  in  the  world, 
that  to  life  there  were  limitations  and  restraints. 
These  limitations  and  restraints  were  laws.  To  be 
obedient  to  them  was  to  escape  hurt  and  make  for 
happiness. 

He  did  not  reason  the  question  out  in  this  man- 
fashion.  He  merely  classified  the  things  that  hurt 
and  the  things  that  did  not  hurt.  And  after  such 
classification  he  avoided  the  things  that  hurt,  the 
restrictions  and  restraints,  in  order  to  enjoy  the 
satisfactions  and  the  remunerations  of  life. 

Thus  it  was  that  in  obedience  to  the  law  laid  down 
by  his  mother,  and  in  obedience  to  the  law  of  that 
unknown  and  nameless  thing,  fear,  he  kept  away 
from  the  mouth  of  the  cave.  It  remained  to  him  a 
white  wall  of  light.  When  his  mother  was  absent, 
he  slept  most  of  the  time,  while  during  the  intervals 
that  he  was  awake  he  kept  very  quiet,  suppressing 
the  whimpering  cries  that  tickled  in  his  throat  and 
strove  for  noise. 

Once,  lying  awake,  he  heard  a  strange  sound  in 
the  white  wall.  He  did  not  know  that  it  was  a 
wolverine,  standing  outside,  all  a-tremble  with  its 
own  daring,  and  cautiously  scenting  out  the  contents- 
of  the  cave.  The  cub  knew  only  that  the  sniff  was 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  WORLD  87 

strange,  a  something  unclassified,  therefore  unknown 
and  terrible — for  the  unknown  was  one  of  the  chief 
elements  that  went  into  the  making  of  fear. 

The  hair  bristled  up  on  the  gray  cub 's  back,  but  it 
bristled  silently.  How  was  he  to  know  that  this 
thing  that  sniffed  was  a  thing  at  which  to  bristle  f 
It  was  not  born  of  any  knowledge  of  his,  yet  it  was 
the  visible  expression  of  the  fear  that  was  in  him, 
and  for  which,  in  his  own  life,  there  was  no  account 
ing.  But  fear  was  accompanied  by  another  in 
stinct — that  of  concealment.  The  cub  was  in  a 
frenzy  of  terror,  yet  he  lay  without  movement  of 
sound,  frozen,  petrified  into  immobility,  to  all  ap 
pearances  dead.  His  mother,  coming  home,  growled 
as  she  smelt  the  wolverine 's  track,  and  bounded  into 
the  cave  and  licked  and  nozzled  him  with  undue 
vehemence  of  affection.  And  the  cub  felt  that  some 
how  he  had  escaped  a  great  hurt. 

But  there  were  other  forces  at  work  in  the  cub, 
the  greatest  of  which  was  growth.  Instinct  and  law 
demanded  of  him  obedience.  But  growth  demanded 
disobedience.  His  mother  and  fear  impelled  him  to 
keep  away  from  the  white  wall.  Growth  is  life,  and 
life  is  forever  destined  to  make  for  light.  So  there 
was  no  damming  up  the  tide  of  life  that  was  rising 
within  him — rising  with  every  mouthful  of  meat  he 
swallowed,  with  every  breath  he  drew.  In  the  end, 
one  day,  fear  and  obedience  were  swept  away  by  the 


88  WHITE  FANG 

rush  of  life,  and  the  cub  straddled  and  sprawled 
toward  the  entrance. 

Unlike  any  other  wall  with  which  he  had  had  ex 
perience,  this  wall  seemed  to  recede  from  him  as 
he  approached.  No  hard  surface  collided  with  the 
tender  little  nose  he  thrust  out  tentatively  before 
him.  The  substance  of  the  wall  seemed  as  per 
meable  and  yielding  as  light.  And  as  condition,  in 
his  eyes,  had  the  seeming  of  form,  so  he  entered  into 
what  had  been  wall  to  him  and  bathed  in  the  sub 
stance  that  composed  it. 

It  was  bewildering.  He  was  sprawling  through 
solidity.  And  ever  the  light  grew  brighter.  Fear 
urged  him  to  go  back,  but  growth  drove  him  on. 
Suddenly  he  found  himself  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave. 
The  wall,  inside  which  he  had  thought  himself,  as 
suddenly  leaped  back  before  him  to  an  immeasurable 
distance.  The  light  had  become  painfully  bright. 
He  was  dazzled  by  it.  Likewise  he  was  made  dizzy 
by  this  abrupt  and  tremendous  extension  of  space. 
Automatically,  his  eyes  were  adjusting  themselves 
to  the  brightness,  focussing  themselves  to  meet  the 
increased  distance  of  objects.  At  first,  the  wall  had 
leaped  beyond  his  vision.  He  now  saw  it  again; 
but  it  had  taken  upon  itself  a  remarkable  remoteness. 
Also,  its  appearance  had  changed.  It  was  now  a 
variegated  wall,  composed  of  the  trees  that  fringed 
the  stream,  the  opposing  mountain  that  towered 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  WORLD  89 

above  the  trees,  and  the  sky  that  out-towered  the 
mountain. 

A  great  fear  came  upon  him.  This  was  more  of 
the  terrible  unknown.  He  crouched  down  on  the  lip 
of  the  cave  and  gazed  out  on  the  world.  He  was 
very  much  afraid.  Because  it  was  unknown,  it  was 
hostile  to  him.  Therefore  the  hair  stood  up  on  end 
along  his  back  and  his  lips  wrinkled  weakly  in  an 
attempt  at  a  ferocious  and  intimidating  snarl.  Out 
of  his  puniness  and  fright  he  challenged  and  men 
aced  the  whole  wide  world. 

Nothing  happened.  He  continued  to  gaze,  and  in 
his  interest  he  forgot  to  snarl.  Also,  he  forgot  to 
be  afraid.  For  the  time,  fear  had  been  routed  by 
growth,  while  growth  had  assumed  the  guise  of 
curiosity.  He  began  to  notice  near  objects — an 
open  portion  of  the  stream  that  flashed  in  the  sun, 
the  blasted  pine  tree  that  stood  at  the  base  of  the 
slope,  and  the  slope  itself,  that  ran  right  up  to  him 
and  ceased  two  feet  beneath  the  lip  of  the  cave  on 
which  he  crouched. 

Now  the  gray  cub  had  lived  all  his  days  on  a  level 
floor.  He  had  never  experienced  the  hurt  of  a  fall. 
He  did  not  know  what  a  fall  was.  So  he  stepped 
boldly  out  upon  the  air.  His  hind-legs  still  rested  on 
the  cave-lip,  so  he  fell  forward  head  downward. 
The  earth  struck  him  a  harsh  blow  on  the  nose  that 
made  him  yelp.  Then  he  began  rolling  down  the 


90  WHITE  FANG 

slope,  over  and  over.  He  was  in  a  panic  of  terror. 
The  unknown  had  caught  him  at  last.  It  had 
gripped  savagely  hold  of  him  and  was  about  to  wreak 
upon  him  some  terrific  hurt.  Growth  was  now 
routed  by  fear,  and  he  ki-yi'd  like  any  frightened 
puppy. 

The  unknown  bore  him  on  he  knew  not  to  what 
frightful  hurt,  and  he  yelped  and  ki-yi'd  unceas 
ingly.  This  was  a  different  proposition  from 
crouching  in  frozen  fear  while  the  unknown  lurked 
just  alongside.  Now  the  unknown  had  caught  tight 
hold  of  him.  Silence  would  do  no  good.  Besides, 
it  was  not  fear,  but  terror,  that  convulsed  him. 

But  the  slope  grew  more  gradual,  and  its  base 
was  grass-covered.  Here  the  cub  lost  momentum. 
When  at  last  he  came  to  a  stop,  he  gave  one  last 
agonized  yelp  and  then  a  long,  whimpering  wail. 
Also,  and  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  as  though  in 
his  life  he  had  already  made  a  thousand  toilets,  he 
proceeded  to  lick  away  the  dry  clay  that  soiled  him. 

After  that  he  sat  up  and  gazed  about  him,  as  might 
the  first  man  of  the  earth  who  landed  upon  Mars. 
The  cub  had  broken  through  the  wall  of  the  world, 
the  unknown  had  let  go  its  hold  of  him,  and  here 
he  was  without  hurt;  But  the  first  man  on  Mars 
would  have  experienced  less  unfamiliarity  than  did 
he.  Without  any  antecedent  knowledge,  without 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  WORLD  91 

any  warning  whatever  that  such  existed,  he  found 
himself  an  explorer  in  a  totally  new  world. 

Now  that  the  terrible  unknown  had  let  go  of  him, 
he  forgot  that  the  unknown  had  any  terrors.  He 
was  aware  only  of  curiosity  in  all  the  things  about 
him.  He  inspected  the  grass  beneath  him,  the  moss- 
berry  plant  just  beyond,  and  the  dead  trunk  of  the 
blasted  pine  that  stood  on  the  edge  of  an  open  space 
among  the  trees.  A  squirrel,  running  around  the 
base  of  the  trunk,  came  full  upon  him,  and  gave  him 
a  great  fright.  He  cowered  down  and  snarled. 
But  the  squirrel  was  as  badly  scared.  It  ran  up  the 
tree,  and  from  a  point  of  safety  chattered  back  sav 
agely. 

This  helped  the  cub's  courage,  and  though  the 
woodpecker  he  next  encountered  gave  him  a  start, 
he  proceeded  confidently  on  his  way.  Such  was  his 
confidence,  that  when  a  moose-bird  impudently 
hopped  up  to  him,  he  reached  out  at  it  with  a  playful 
paw.  The  result  was  a  sharp  peck  on  the  end  of 
his  nose  that  made  him  cower  down  and  ki-yi.  The 
noise  he  made  was  too  much  for  the  moose-bird,  who 
sought  safety  in  flight. 

But  the  cub  was  learning.  His  misty  little  mind 
had  already  made  an  unconscious  classification. 
There  were  live  things  and  things  not  alive.  Also, 
he  must  watch  out  for  the  live  things.  The  things 


92  WHITE  FANG 

not  alive  remained  always  in  one  place;  but  the  live 
things  moved  about,  and  there  was  no  telling  what 
they  might  do.  The  thing  to  expect  of  them  was 
the  unexpected,  and  for  this  he  must  be  prepared. 

He  travelled  very  clumsily.  He  ran  into  sticks 
and  things.  A  twig  that  he  thought  a  long  way  off, 
would  the  next  instant  hit  him  on  the  nose  or  rake 
along  his  ribs.  There  were  inequalities  of  surface. 
Sometimes  he  overstepped  and  stubbed  his  nose. 
Quite  as  often  he  understepped  and  stubbed  his  feet. 
Then  there  were  the  pebbles  and  stones  that  turned 
under  him  when  he  trod  upon  them ;  and  from  them 
he  came  to  know  that  the  things  not  alive  were  not 
all  in  the  same  state  of  stable  equilibrium  as  was  his 
cave;  also,  that  small  things  not  alive  were  more 
liable  than  large  things  to  fall  down  or  turn  over. 
But  with  every  mishap  he  was  learning.  The  longer 
he  walked,  the  better  he  walked.  He  was  adjusting 
himself.  He  was  learning  to  calculate  his  own  mus 
cular  movements,  to  know  his  physical  limitations, 
to  measure  distances  between  objects,  and  between 
objects  and  himself. 

His  was  the  luck  of  the  beginner.  Born  to  be  a 
hunter  of  meat,  (though  he  did  not  know  it),  he 
blundered  upon  meat-  just  outside  his  own  cave-door 
on  his  first  foray  into  the  world.  It  was  by  sheer 
blundering  that  he  chanced  upon  the  shrewdly  hid 
den  ptarmigan  nest.  He  fell  into  it.  He  had  es- 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  WORLD  93 

sayed  to  walk  along  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  pine.  The 
rotten  bark  gave  way  under  his  feet,  and  with  a 
despairing  yelp  he  pitched  down  the  rounded  de 
scent,  smashed  through  the  leafage  and  stalks  of  a 
small  bush,  and  in  the  heart  of  the  bush,  on  the 
ground,  fetched  up  amongst  seven  ptarmigan  chicks. 
They  made  noises,  and  at  first  he  was  frightened 
at  them.  Then  he  perceived  that  they  were  very 
little,  and  he  became  bolder.  They  moved.  He 
placed  his  paw  on  one,  and  its  movements  were  ac 
celerated.  This  was  a  source  of  enjoyment  to  him. 
He  smelled  it.  He  picked  it  up  in  his  mouth.  It 
struggled  and  tickled  his  tongue.  At  the  same  time 
he  was  made  aware  of  a  sensation  of  hunger.  His 
jaws  closed  together.  There  was  a  crunching  of 
fragile  bones,  and  warm  blood  ran  in  his  mouth. 
The  taste  of  it  was  good.  This  was  meat,  the  same 
as  his  mother  gave  him,  only  it  was  alive  between 

his  teeth  and  therefore  better    So  he  ate  the  ptarmi- 

• 

gan.  Nor  did  he  stop  till  he  had  devoured  the  whole 
brood.  Then  he  licked  his  chops  in  quite  the  same 
way  his  mother  did,  and  began  to  crawi  out  of  the 
bush. 

He  encountered  a  feathered  whirlwind.  He  was 
confused  and  blinded  by  the  rush  of  it  and  the  beat 
of  angry  wings.  He  hid  his  head  between  his  paws 
and  yelped.  The  blows  increased.  The  mother 
ptarmigan  was  in  a  fury.  Then  he  became  angry. 


94  WHITE  FAiMJ 

He  rose  up,  snarling,  striking  out  with  his  paws. 
He  sank  his  tiny  teeth  into  one  of  the  wings  and 
pulled  and  tugged  sturdily  The  ptarmigan  strug 
gled  against  him,  showering  blows  upon  him  with  her 
free  wing.  It  was  his  first  battle.  He  was  elated. 
He  forgot  all  about  the  unknown.  He  no  longer  was 
afraid  of  anything.  He  was  fighting,  tearing  at  a 
live  thing  that  was  striking  at  him.  Also,  this  live 
thing  was  meat.  The  lust  to  kill  was  on  him.  He 
had  just  destroyed  little  live  things.  He  would  now 
destroy  a  big  live  thing.  He  was  too  busy  and  happy 
to  know  that  he  was  happy.  He  was  thrilling  and 
exulting  in  ways  new  to  him  and  greater  to  him  than 
any  he  had  known  before. 

He  held  on  to  the  wing  and  growled  between  his 
tight-clenched  teeth.  The  ptarmigan  dragged  him 
out  of  the  bush.  When  she  turned  and  tried  to  drag 
him  back  into  the  bush 's  shelter,  he  pulled  her  away 
from  it  and  on  into  the  open.  And  all  the  time  she 
was  making  outcry  and  striking  with  her  wing,  while 
feathers  were  flying  like  a  snow-fall.  The  pitch  to 
which  he  was  aroused  was  tremendous.  All  the 
fighting  blood  of  his  breed  was  up  in  him  and  surg 
ing  through  him.  This  was  living,  though  he  did  not 
know  it.  He  was  realizing  his  own  meaning  in  the 
world;  he  was  doing  that  for  which  he  was  made- 
killing  meat  and  battling  to  kill  it.  He  was  justify 
ing  his  existence,  than  which  life  can  do  no  greater ; 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  \YORLD  95 

for  life  achieves  its  summit  when  it  does  to  the  utter 
most  that  which  it  was  equipped  to  do. 

After  a  time,  the  ptarmigan  ceased  her  struggling. 
He  still  held  her  by  the  wing,  and  they  lay  on  the 
ground  and  looked  at  each  other.  He  tried  to  growl 
threateningly,  ferociously.  She  pecked  on  his  nose, 
which  by  now,  what  of  previous  adventures,  was 
sore.  He  winced  but  held  on.  She  pecked  him 
again  and  again.  From  wincing  he  went  to  whimp 
ering.  He  tried  to  back  away  from  her,  oblivious  of 
the  fact  that  by  his  hold  on  her  he  dragged  her  after 
him.  A  rain  of  pecks  fell  on  his  ill-used  nose.  The 
flood  of  fight  ebbed  down  in  him,  and,  releasing  his 
prey,  he  turned  tail  and  scampered  off  across  the 
open  in  inglorious  retreat. 

He  lay  down  to  rest  on  the  other  side  of  the  open, 
near  the  edge  of  the  bushes,  his  tongue  lolling  out, 
his  chest  heaving  and  panting,  his  nose  still  hurting 
him  and  causing  him  to  continue  his  whimper.  But 
as  he  lay  there,  suddenly  there  came  to  him  a  feeling 
as  of  something  terrible  impending.  The  unknown 
with  all  its  terrors  rushed  upon  him,  and  he  shrank 
back  instinctively  into  the  shelter  of  the  bush.  As 
he  did  so,  a  draught  of  air  fanned  him,  and  a  large, 
winged  body  swept  ominously  and  silently  past.  A 
hawk,  driving  down  out  of  the  blue,  had  barely 
missed  him. 

While  he  lay  in  the  bush,  recovering  from  this 


96  WHITE  FANG 

fright  and  peering  fearfully  out,  the  mother-ptarmi 
gan  on  the  other  side  of  the  open  space  fluttered 
out  of  the  ravaged  nest.  It  was  because  of  her  loss 
that  she  paid  no  attention  to  the  winged  bolt  of  the 
sky.  But  the  cub  saw,  and  it  was  a  warning  and  a 
lesson  to  him — the  swift  downward  swoop  of  the 
hawk,  the  short  skim  of  its  body  just  above  the 
ground,  the  strike  of  its  talons  in  the  body  of  the 
ptarmigan,  the  ptarmigan's  squawk  of  agony  and 
fright,  and  the  hawk's  rush  upward  into  the  blue, 
carrying  the  ptarmigan  away  with  it. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  the  cub  left  his  shelter. 
He  had  learned  much.  Live  things  were  meat. 
They  were  good  to  eat.  Also,  live  things  when  they 
were  large  enough,  could  give  hurt.  It  was  better  to 
eat  small  live  things  like  ptarmigan  chicks,  and  to  let 
alone  large  live  things  like  ptarmigan  hens.  Never 
theless  he  felt  a  little  prick  of  ambition,  a  sneaking 
desire  to  have  another  battle  with  that  ptarmigan 
hen — only  the  hawk  had  carried  her  away.  Maybe 
there  were  other  ptarmigan  hens.  He  would  go  and 
see. 

He  came  down  a  shelving  bank  to  the  stream. 
He  had  never  seen  water  before.  The  footing  looked 
good.  There  were  no  inequalities  of  surface.  He 
stepped  boldly  out  on  it;  and  went  down,  crying 
with  fear,  into  the  embrace  of  the  unknown.  It  was 
cold,  and  he  gasped,  breathing  quickly.  The  water 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  WORLD  97 

rushed  into  his  lungs  instead  of  the  air  that  had 
always  accompanied  his  act  of  breathing.  The  suf 
focation  he  experienced  was  like  the  pang  of  death. 
To  him  it  signified  death.  He  had  no  conscious 
knowledge  of  death,  but  like  every  animal  of  the 
Wild,  he  possessed  the  instinct  of  death.  To  him 
it  stood  as  the  greatest  of  hurts.  It  was  the  very 
essence  of  the  unknown;  it  was  the  sum  of  the  ter 
rors  of  the  unknown,  the  one  culminating  and  un 
thinkable  catastrophe  that  could  happen  to  him, 
about  which  he  knew  nothing  and  about  which  he 
feared  everything. 

He  came  to  the  surface,  and  the  sweet  air  rushed 
into  his  open  mouth.  He  did  not  go  down  again. 
Quite  as  though  it  had  been  a  long-established  cus 
tom  of  his,  he  struck  out  with  all  his  legs  and  began 
to  swim.  The  near  bank  was  a  yard  away;  but  he 
had  come  up  with  his  back  to  it,  and  the  first  thing 
his  eyes  rested  upon  was  the  opposite  bank,  toward 
which  he  immediately  began  to  swim.  The  stream 
was  a  small  one,  but  in  the  pool  it  widened  out  to 
a  score  of  feet. 

Midway  in  the  passage,  the  current  picked  up  the 
cub  and  swept  him  down-stream.  He  was  caught  in 
the  miniature  rapid  at  the  bottom  of  the  pool.  Here 
was  little  chance  for  swimming.  The  quiet  water 
had  become  suddenly  angry.  Sometimes  he  was  un 
der,  sometimes  on  top.  At  all  times  he  was  in  vio- 


98  WHITE  FANG 

lent  motion,  now  being  turned  over  or  around,  and 
again,  being  smashed  against  a  rock.  And  with  every 
rock  he  struck,  he  yelped.  His  progress  was  a  series 
of  yelps,  from  which  might  have  been  adduced  the 
number  of  rocks  he  encountered. 

Below  the  rapid  was  a  second  pool,  and  here,  cap 
tured  by  the  eddy,  he  was  gently  borne  to  the  bank 
and  as  gently  deposited  on  a  bed  of  gravel.  He 
crawled  frantically  clear  of  the  water  and  lay  down. 
He  had  learned  some  more  about  the  world.  Water 
was  not  alive.  Yet  it  moved.  Also,  it  looked  as 
solid  as  the  earth,  but  was  without  any  solidity  at  all. 
His  conclusion  was  that  things  were  not  always  what 
they  appeared  to  be.  The  cub 's  fear  of  the  unknown 
was  an  inherited  distrust,  and  it  had  now  been 
strengthened  by  experience.  Thenceforth,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  he  would  possess  an  abiding  dis 
trust  of  appearances.  He  would  have  to  learn  the 
reality  of  a  thing  before  he  could  put  his  faith  into 
it. 

One  other  adventure  was  destined  for  him  that 
day.  He  had  recollected  that  there  was  such  a  thing 
in  the  world  as  his  mother.  And  then  there  came  to 
him  a  feeling  that  he  wanted  her  more  than  all  the 
rest  of  the  things  in  the  world.  Not  only  was  his 
body  tired  with  the  adventures  it  had  undergone,  but 
his  little  brain  was  equally  tired.  In  all  the  days  he 
had  lived  it  had  not  worked  so  hard  as  on  this  one 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  WORLD  99 

day.  Furthermore,  he  was  sleepy.  So  he  started 
out  to  look  for  the  cave  and  his  mother,  feeling  at  the 
same  time  an  overwhelming  rush  of  loneliness  and 
helplessness. 

He  was  sprawling  along  between  some  bushes, 
when  he  heard  a  sharp,  intimidating  cry.  There  was 
a  flash  of  yellow  before  his  eyes.  He  saw  a  weasel 
leaping  swiftly  away  from  him.  It  was  a  small  live 
thing,  and  he  had  no  fear.  Then,  before  him,  at  his 
feet,  he  saw  an  extremely  small  live  thing,  only  sev 
eral  inches  long — a  young  weasel,  that,  like  himself, 
had  disobediently  gone  out  adventuring.  It  tried  to 
retreat  before  him.  He  turned  it  over  with  his  paw. 
It  made  a  queer,  grating  noise.  The  next  moment 
the  flash  of  yellow  reappeared  before  his  eyes.  He 
heard  again  the  intimidating  cry,  and  at  the  same 
instant  received  a  severe  blow  on  the  side  of  the  neck 
and  felt  the  sharp  teeth  of  the  mother-weasel  cut  into 
his  flesh. 

While  he  yelped  and  ki-yi'd  and  scrambled  back 
ward,  he  saw  the  mother-weasel  leap  upon  her  young 
one  and  disappear  with  it  into  the  neighboring 
thicket.  The  cut  of  her  teeth  in  his  neck  still  hurt, 
but  his  feelings  were  hurt  more  grievously,  and  he 
sat  down  and  weakly  whimpered.  This  mother- 
weasel  was  so  small  and  so  savage !  He  was  yet  to 
learn  that  for  size  and  weight  the  weasel  was  the 
most  ferocious,  vindictive,  and  terrible  of  all  the 


100  WHITE  FANG 

killers  of  the  Wild.  But  a  portion  of  this  knowledge 
was  quickly  to  be  his. 

He  was  still  whimpering  when  the  mother-weasel 
reappeared.  She  did  not  rush  him,  now  that  her 
young  one  was  safe.  She  approached  more  cau 
tiously,  and  the  cub  had  full  opportunity  to  observe 
her  lean,  snakelike  body,  and  her  head,  erect,  eager, 
and  snakelike  itself.  Her  sharp,  menacing  cry  sent 
the  hair  bristling  along  his  back,  and  he  snarled 
warningly  at  her.  She  came  closer  and  closer. 
There  was  a  leap,  swifter  than  his  unpractised  sight, 
and  the  lean,  yellow  body  disappeared  for  a  moment 
out  of  the  field  of  his  vision.  The  next  moment  she 
was  at  his  throat,  her  teeth  buried  in  his  hair  and 
flesh. 

At  first  he  snarled  and  tried  to  fight ;  but  he  was 
very  young,  and  this  was  only  his  first  day  in  the 
world,  and  his  snarl  became  a  whimper,  his  fight 
a  struggle  to  escape.  The  weasel  never  relaxed  her 
hold.  She  hung  on,  striving  to  press  down  with  her 
teeth  to  the  great  vein  where  his  life-blood  bubbled. 
The  weasel  was  a  drinker  of  blood,  and  it  was  ever 
her  preference  to  drink  from  the  throat  of  life  itself. 

The  gray  cub  would  have  died,  and  there  would 
have  been  no  story  to -write  about  him,  had  not  the 
she-wolf  come  bounding  through  the  bushes.  The 
weasel  let  go  the  cub  and  flashed  at  the  she-wolf's 
throat,  missing,  but  getting  a  hold  on  the  jaw  instead. 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  WORLD  101 

The  she-wolf  flirted  her  head  like  the  snap  of  a  whip, 
breaking  the  weasel's  hold  and  flinging  it  high  in 
the  air.  And,  still  in  the  air,  the  she-wolf 's  jaws 
closed  on  the  lean,  yellow  body,  and  the  weasel  knew 
death  between  the  crunching  teeth. 

The  cub  experienced  another  access  of  affection  on 
the  part  of  his  mother.  Her  joy  at  finding  him 
seemed  greater  even  than  his  joy  at  being  found. 
She  nozzled  him  and  caressed  him  and  licked  the  cuts 
made  in  him  by  the  weasel's  teeth.  Then,  between 
them,  mother  and  cub,  they  ate  the  blood-drinker, 
and  after  that  went  back  to  the  cave  and  slept. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  LAW    OF   MEAT 

THE  cub's  development  was  rapid.  He  rested  for 
two  days,  and  then  ventured  forth  from  the  cave 
again.  It  was  on  this  adventure  that  he  found  the 
young  weasel  whose  mother  he  had  helped  eat,  and 
he  saw  to  it  that  the  young  weasel  went  the  way  of 
its  mother.  But  on  this  trip  he  did  not  get  lost. 
When  he  grew  tired,  he  found  his  way  back  to  the 
cave  and  slept.  And  every  day  thereafter  found 
him  out  and  ranging  a  wider  area. 

He  began  to  get  an  accurate  measurement  of  his 
strength  and  his  weakness,  and  to  know  when  to  be 
bold  and  when  to  be  cautious.  He  found  it  expe 
dient  to  be  cautious  all  the  time,  except  for  the  rare 
moments,  when,  assured  of  his  own  intrepidity,  he 
abandoned  himself  to  petty  rages  and  lusts. 

He  was  always  a  little  demon  of  fury  when  he 
chanced  upon  a  stray  ptarmigan.  Never  did  he  fail 
to  respond  savagely  to  the  chatter  of  the  squirrel  he 
had  first  met  on  the  blasted  pine.  While  the  sight 
of  a  moose-bird  almost  invariably  put  him  into  the 

wildest  of  rages ;  for  he  never  forgot  the  peck  on  the 

102 


THE  LAW  OF  MEAT  103 

nose  he  had  received  from  the  first  of  that  ilk  he 
encountered. 

But  there  were  times  when  even  a  moose-bird 
failed  to  affect  him,  and  those  were  times  when  he 
felt  himself  to  be  in  danger  from  some  other  prowl 
ing  meat-hunter.  He  never  forgot  the  hawk,  and  its 
moving  shadow  always  sent  him  crouching  into  the 
nearest  thicket.  He  no  longer  sprawled  and  strad 
dled,  and  already  he  was  developing  the  gait  of  his 
mother,  slinking  and  furtive,  apparently  without  ex 
ertion,  yet  sliding  along  with  a  swiftness  that  was 
as  deceptive  as  it  was  imperceptible. 

In  the  matter  of  meat,  his  luck  had  been  all  in  the 
beginning.  The  seven  ptarmigan  chicks  and  the 
baby  weasel  represented  the  sum  of  his  killings. 
His  desire  to  kill  strengthened  with  the  days,  and  he 
cherished  hungry  ambitrons  for  the  squirrel  that 
chattered  so  volubly  and  always  informed  all  wild 
creatures  that  the  wolf-cub  was  approaching.  But 
as  birds  flew  in  the  air,  squirrels  could  climb  trees, 
and  the  cub  could  only  try  to  crawl  unobserved  upon 
the  squirrel  when  it  was  on  the  ground. 

The  cub  entertained  a  great  respect  for  his 
mother.  She  could  get  meat,  and  she  never  failed  to 
bring  him  his  share.  Further,  she  was  unafraid  of 
things.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  this  fearless 
ness  was  founded  upon  experience  and  knowledge. 
Its  effect  on  him  was  that  of  an  impression  of  power. 


104  WHITE  FANG 

His  mother  rep-resented  power ;  and  as  he  grew  older 
he  felt  this  power  in  the  .sharper  admonition  of  her 
paw;  while  the  reproving  nudge  of  her  nose  gave 
place  to  the  slash  of  her  fangs.  For  this,  likewise, 
he  respected  his  mother.  She  compelled  obedience 
from  him,  and  the  older  he  grew  the  shorter  grew 
her  temper. 

Famine  came  again,  and  the  cub  with  clearer  con 
sciousness  knew  -once  more  the  bite  of  hunger.  The 
she-wolf  ran  herself  thin  in  the  quest  for  meat. 
She  rarely  slept  any  more  in  the  cave,  spending  most 
of  her  time  on  the  meat-trail  and  spending  it  vainly. 
This  famine  was  not  a  long  one,  but  it  was  severe 
while  it  lasted.  The  cub  found  no  more  milk  in  his 
mother's  breast,  nor  did  he  get  one  mouthful  of 
meat  for  himself. 

Before,  he  had  hunted  in  play,  for  the  sheer  joy- 
ousness  of  it ;  now  he  hunted  in  deadly  earnestness, 
and  found  nothing.  Yet  the  failure  of  it  accelerated 
his  development.  He  studied  the  habits  of  the  squir 
rel  with  greater  carefulness,  and  strove  with  greater 
craft  to  steal  upon  it  and  surprise  it.  He  studied 
the  wood-mice  and  tried  to  dig  them  out  of  their 
burrows;  and  he  learned  much  about  the  ways  of 
moose-birds  and  woodpeckers.  And  there  came  a 
day  when  the  hawk's  shadow  did  not  drive  him 
crouching  into  the  bushes.  He  had  grown  stronger, 
and  wiser,  and  more  confident.  Also,  he  was  des- 


THE  LAW  OF  MEAT  105 

perate.  So  he  sat  on  his  haunches,  conspicuously, 
in  an  open  space,  and  challenged  the  hawk  down  out 
of  the  sky.  For  he  knew  that  there,  floating  in  the 
blue  above  him,  was  meat,  the  meat  his  stomach 
yearned  after  so  insistently.  But  the  hawk  refused 
to  come  down  and  give  battle,  and  the  cub  crawled 
away  into  a  thicket  and  whimpered  his  disappoint 
ment  and  hunger. 

The  famine  broke.  The  she-wolf  brought  home 
meat.  It  was  strange  meat,  different  from  any  she 
had  ever  brought  before.  It  was  a  lynx  kitten, 
partly  grown,  like  the  cub,  but  not  so  large.  And  it 
was  all  for  him.  His  mother  had  satisfied  her 
hunger  elsewhere;  though  he  did  not  know  that  it 
was  the  rest  of  the  lynx  litter  that  had  gone  to  satisfy 
her.  Nor  did  he  know  the  desperateness  of  her  deed. 
He  knew  only  that  the  velvet-furred  kitten  was  meat, 
and  he  ate  and  waxed  happier  with  every  mouthful. 

A  full  stomach  conduces  to  inaction,  and  the  cub 
lay  in  the  cave,  sleeping  against  his  mother's  side. 
He  was  aroused  by  her  snarling.  Never  had  he 
heard  her  snarl  so  terribly.  Possibly  in  her  whole 
life  it  was  the  most  terrible  snarl  she  ever  gave. 
There  was  reason  for  it,  and  none  knew  it  better 
than  she.  A  lynx's  lair  is  not  despoiled  with  im 
punity.  In  the  full  glare  of  the  afternoon  light, 
crouching  in  the  entrance  of  the  cave,  the  cub  saw 
the  lynx-mother.  The  hair  rippled  up  all  along  his 


106  WHITE  FANG 

back  at  the  sight.  Here  was  fear,  and  it  did  not  re 
quire  his  instinct  to  tell  him  of  it.  And  if  sight 
alone  were  not  sufficient,  the  cry  of  rage  the  intruder 
gave,  beginning  with  a  snarl  and  rushing  abruptly 
upward  into  a  hoarse  screech,  was  convincing  enough 
in  itself. 

The  cub  felt  the  prod  of  the  life  that  was  in  him, 
and  stood  up  and  snarled  valiantly  by  his  mother's 
side.  But  she  thrust  him  ignominiously  away  and 
behind  her.  Because  of  the  low-roofed  entrance  the 
lynx  could  not  leap  in,  and  when  she  made  a  crawl 
ing  rush  of  it  the  she-wolf  sprang  upon  her  and 
pinned  her  down.  The  cub  saw  little  of  the  battle. 
There  was  a  tremendous  snarling  and  spitting  and 
screeching.  The  two  animals  threshed  about,  the 
lynx  ripping  and  tearing  with  her  claws  and  using 
her  teeth  as  well,  while  the  she-wolf  used  her  teeth 
alone. 

Once,  the  cub  sprang  in  and  sank  his  teeth  into 
the  hind  leg  of  the  lynx.  He  clung  on,  growling 
savagely.  Though  he  did  not  know  it,  by  the  weight 
of  his  body  he  clogged  the  action  of  the  leg  and 
thereby  saved  his  mother  much  damage.  A  change 
in  the  battle  crushed  him  under  both  their  bodies 
and  wrenched  loose  his*  hold.  The  next  moment  the 
two  mothers  separated,  and,  before  they  rushed  to 
gether  again,  the  lynx  lashed  out  at  the  cub  with  a 
huge  fore-paw  that  ripped  his  shoulder  open  to  the 


THE  LAW  OF  MEAT  107 

bone  and  sent  him  hurtling  sidewise  against  the  wall. 
Then  was  added  to  the  uproar  the  cub's  shrill  yelp 
of  pain  and  fright.  But  the  fight  lasted  so  long  that 
he  had  time  to  cry  himself  out  and  to  experience  a 
second  burst  of  courage;  and  the  end  of  the  battle 
found  him  again  clinging  to  a  hind-leg  and  furiously 
growling  between  his  teeth. 

The  lynx  was  dead.  But  the  she-wolf  was  very 
weak  and  sick.  At  first  she  caressed  the  cub  and 
licked  his  wounded  shoulder;  but  the  blood  she  had 
lost  had  taken  with  it  her  strength,  and  for  all  of  a 
day  and  a  night  she  lay  by  her  dead  foe 's  side,  with 
out  movement,  scarcely  breathing.  For  a  week  she 
never  left  the  cave,  except  for  water,  and  then  her 
movements  were  slow  and  painful.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  the  lynx  was  devoured,  while  the  she-wolf's 
wounds  had  healed  sufficiently  to  permit  her  to  take 
the  meat-trail  again. 

The  cub's  shoulder  was  stiff  and  sore,  and  for  some 
time  he  limped  from  the  terrible  slash  he  had  re 
ceived.  But  the  world  now  seemed  changed.  He 
went  about  in  it  with  greater  confidence,  with  a  feel 
ing  of  prowess  that  had  not  been  his  in  the  days 
before  the  battle  with  the  lynx.  He  had  looked  upon 
life  in  a  more  ferocious  aspect;  he  had  fought;  he 
had  buried  his  teeth  in  the  flesh  of  a  foe ;  and  he  had 
survived.  And  because  of  all  this,  he  carried  him 
self  more  boldly,  with  a  touch  of  defiance  that  was 


108  WHITE  FANG 

new  in  him.  He  was  no  longer  afraid  of  minor 
things,  and  much  of  his  timidity  had  vanished, 
though  the  unknown  never  ceased  to  press  upon  him 
with  its  mysteries  and  terrors,  intangible  and  ever- 
menacing. 

He  began  to  accompany  his  mother  on  the  meat- 
trail,  and  he  saw  much  of  the  killing  of  meat  and 
began  to  play  his  part  in  it.  And  in  his  own  dim 
way  he  learned  the  law  of  meat.  There  were  two 
kinds  of  life, — his  own  kind  and  the  other  kind.  His 
own  kind  included  his  mother  and  himself.  The 
other  kind  included  all  live  things  that  moved.  But 
the  other  kind  was  divided.  One  portion  was  that 
his  own  kind  killed  and  ate.  This  portion  was  com 
posed  of  the  non-killers  and  the  small  killers.  The 
other  portion  killed  and  ate  his  own  kind,  or  was 
killed  and  eaten  by  his  own  kind.  And  out  of  this 
classification  arose  the  law.  The  aim  of  life  was 
meat.  Life  itself  was  meat.  Life  lived  on  life. 
There  were  the  eaters  and  the  eaten.  The  law 
was:  EAT  OB  BE  EATEN.  He  did  not  for 
mulate  the  law  in  clear,  set  terms  and  mor 
alize  about  it.  He  did  not  even  think  the  law; 
he  merely  lived  the  law  without  thinking  about  it  at 
all. 

He  saw  the  law  operating  around  him  on  every 
side.  He  had  eaten  the  ptarmigan  chicks.  The 
hawk  had  eaten  the  ptarmigan-mother.  The  hawk 


THE  LAW  OF  MEAT  109 

would  also  have  eaten  him.  Later,  when  he  had 
grown  more  formidable,  he  wanted  to  eat  the  hawk. 
He  had  eaten  the  lynx  kitten.  The  lynx-mother 
would  have  eaten  him  had  she  not  herself  been  killed 
and  eaten.  And  so  it  went.  The  law  was  being 
lived  about  him  by  all  live  things,  and  he  himself  was 
part  and  parcel  of  the  law.  He  was  a  killer.  His 
only  food  was  meat,  live  meat,  that  ran  away  swiftly 
before  him,  or  flew  into  the  air,  or  climbed  trees,  or 
hid  in  the  ground,  or  faced  him  and  fought  with  him, 
or  turned  the  tables  and  ran  after  him. 

Had  the  cub  thought  in  man-fashion,  he  might 
have  epitomized  life  as  a  voracious  appetite,  and  the 
world  as  a  place  wherein  ranged  a  multitude  of  ap 
petites,  pursuing  and  being  pursued,  hunting  and 
being  hunted,  eating  and  being  eaten,  all  in  blindness 
and  confusion,  with  violence  and  disorder,  a  chaos  of 
gluttony  and  slaughter,  ruled  over  by  chance,  merci 
less,  planless,  endless. 

But  the  cub  did  not  think  in  man-fashion.  He  did 
not  look  at  things  with  wide  vision.  He  was  single- 
purposed,  and  entertained  but  one  thought  or  desire 
at  a  time.  Besides  the  law  of  meat,  there  was  a 
myriad  other  and  lesser  laws  for  him  to  learn  and 
obey.  The  world  was  filled  with  surprise.  The  stir 
of  the  life  that  was  in  him,  the  play  of  his  muscles, 
was  an  unending  happiness.  To  run  down  meat  was 
to  experience  thrills  and  elations.  His  rages  and 


110  WHITE  FANG 

battles  were  pleasures.    Terror  itself,  and  the  mys 
tery  of  the  unknown,  lent  to  his  living. 

And  there  were  easements  and  satisfactions.  To 
have  a  full  stomach,  to  doze  lazily  in  the  sunshine — 
such  things  were  remuneration  in  full  for  his  ardors 
and  toils,  while  his  ardors  and  toils  were  in  them 
selves  self -remunerative.  They  were  expressions  of 
life,  and  life  is  always  happy  when  it  is  expressing 
itself.  So  the  cub  had  no  quarrel  with  his  hostile 
environment.  He  was  very  much  alive,  very  happy, 
and  very  proud  of  himself. 


PAET  THREE 
THE  GODS  OF  THE  WILD 

CHAPTEB      I THE  MAKERS  OF  FIRE 

CHAPTER    II THE  BONDAGE 

CHAPTER  III THE  OUTCAST 

CHAPTER  IV THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  GODS 

CHAPTER    V THE  COVENANT 

CHAPTER  VI  THE  FAMINE 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   MAKERS   OF   FIRE 

THE  cub  came  upon  it  suddenly.  It  was  his  own 
fault.  He  had  been  careless.  He  had  left  the  cave 
and  run  down  to  the  stream  to  drink.  It  might 
have  been  that  he  took  no  notice  because  he  was 
heavy  with  sleep.  (He  had  been  out  all  night  on 
the  meat-trail,  and  had  but  just  then  awakened.) 
And  his  carelessness  might  have  been  due  to  the 
fmiliarity  of  the  trail  to  the  pool.  He  had  trav 
elled  it  often,  and  nothing  had  ever  happened  on  it. 

He  went  down  past  the  blasted  pine,  crossed  the 
open  space,  and  trotted  in  amongst  the  trees.  Then, 
at  the  same  instant,  he  saw  and  smelt.  Before  him, 
sitting  silently  on  their  haunches,  were  five  live 
things,  the  like  of  which  he  had  never  seen  before. 
It  was  his  first  glimpse  of  mankind.  But  at  the  sight 
of  him  the  five  men  did  not  spring  to  their  feet,  nor 
show  their  teeth,  nor  snarl.  They  did  not  move,  but 
sat  there,  silent  and  ominous. 

Nor  did  the  cub  move.  Every  instinct  of  his 
nature  would  have  impelled  him  to  dash  wildly  away, 
had  there  not  suddenly  and  for  the  first  time  arisen 
in  him  another  and  counter  instinct.  A  great  awe 
descended  upon  him.  He  was  beaten  down  to  move- 

113 


114  WHITE  FANG 

lessness  by  an  overwhelming  sense  of  his  own  weak 
ness  and  littleness.  Here  was  mastery  and  power, 
something  far  and  away  beyond  him. 

The  cub  had  never  seen  man,  yet  the  instinct  con 
cerning  man  was  his.  In  dim  ways  he  recognized  in 
man  the  animal  that  had  fought  itself  to  primacy 
over  the  other  animals  of  the  Wild.  Not  alone  out 
of  his  own  eyes,  but  out  of  the  eyes  of  all  his  an 
cestors  was  the  cub  now  looking  upon  man — out  of 
eyes  that  had  circled  in  the  darkness  around  count 
less  winter  campfires,  that  had  peered  from  safe  dis 
tances  and  from  the  hearts  of  thickets  at  the  strange, 
two-legged  animal  that  was  lord  over  living  things. 
The  spell  of  the  cub's  heritage  was  upon  him,  the 
fear  and  the  respect  born  of  the  centuries  of  struggle 
and  the  accumulated  experience  of  the  generations. 
The  heritage  was  too  compelling  for  a  wolf  that  was 
only  a  cub.  Had  he  been  full-grown,  he  would  have 
run  away.  As  it  was,  he  cowered  down  in  a  pa 
ralysis  of  fear,  already  half  proffering  the  submis 
sion  that  his  kind  had  proffered  from  the  first  time 
a  wrolf  came  in  to  sit  by  man's  fire  and  be  made 
warm. 

One  of  the  Indians  arose  and  walked  over  to  him 
and  stooped  above  him.  The  cub  cowered  closer  to 
the  ground.  It  was  the  unknown,  objectified  at  last, 
in  concrete  flesh  and  blood,  bending  over  him  and 
reaching  down  to  seize  hold  of  him.  His  hair 


THE  MAKERS  OF   FiKE  115 

bristled  involuntarily ;  his  lips  writhed  back  and  his 
little  fangs  were  bared.  The  hand,  poised  like  doom 
above  him,  hesitated,  and  the  man  spoke,  laughing, 
"Wok am  wabisca  ip  pit  tah."  ("Look!  The 
white  fangs !") 

The  other  Indians  laughed  loudly,  and  urged  the 
man  on  to  pick  up  the  cub.  As  the  hand  descended 
closer  and  closer,  there  raged  within  the  cub  a  battle 
of  the  instincts.  He  experienced  two  great  impul 
sions, — to  yield  and  to  fight.  The  resulting  action 
was  a  compromise.  He  did  both.  He  yielded  till 
the  hand  almost  touched  him.  Then  he  fought,  his 
teeth  flashing  in  a  snap  that  sank  them  into  the 
hand.  The  next  moment  he  received  a  clout  along 
side  the  head  that  knocked  him  over  on  his  side. 
Then  all  fight  fled  out  of  him.  His  puppyhood  and 
the  instinct  of  submission  took  charge  of  him.  He 
sat  up  on  his  haunches  and  ki-yi'd.  But  the  man 
whose  hand  he  had  bitten  was  angry.  The  cub  re 
ceived  a  clout  on  the  other  side  of  his  head.  Where 
upon  he  sat  up  and  ki-yi'd  louder  than  ever. 

The  four  Indians  laughed  more  loudly,  while  even 
the  man  who  had  been  bitten  began  to  laugh.  They 
surrounded  the  cub  and  laughed  at  him,  while  he 
wailed  out  his  terror  and  his  hurt.  In  the  midst 
of  it,  he  heard  something.  The  Indians  heard  it,  too. 
But  the  cub  knew  what  it  was,  and  with  a  last,  long 
wail  that  had  in  it  more  of  triumph  than  grief,  he 


116  WHITE  FANG 

ceased  his  noise  and  waited  for  the  coming  of  his 
mother,  of  his  ferocious  and  indomitable  mother  who 
fought  and  killed  all  things  and  was  never  afraid. 
She  was  snarling  as  she  ran.  She  had  heard  the  cry 
of  her  cub  and  was  dashing  to  save  him. 

She  bounded  in  amongst  them,  her  anxious  and 
militant  motherhood  making  her  anything  but  a 
pretty  sight.  But  to  the  cub  the  spectacle  of  her 
protective  rage  was  pleasing.  He  uttered  a  glad 
little  cry  and  bounded  to  meet  her,  while  the  man- 
animals  went  back  hastily  several  steps.  The  she- 
wolf  stood  over  against  her  cub,  facing  the  men,  with 
bristling  hair,  a  snarl  rumbling  deep  in  her  throat. 
Her  face  was  distorted  and  malignant  with  menace, 
even  the  bridge  of  the  nose  wrinkling  from  tip  to 
eyes  so  prodigious  was  her  snarl. 

Then  it  was  that  a  cry  went  up  from  one  of  the 
men.  "Kiche!"  was  what  he  uttered.  It  was  an 
exclamation  of  surprise.  The  cub  felt  his  mother 
wilting  at  the  sound. 

"  Kiche !"  the  man  cried  again,  this  time  with 
sharpness  and  authority. 

And  then  the  cub  saw  his  mother,  the  she-wolf,  the 
fearless  one,  crouching  down  till  her  belly  touched 
the  ground,  whimpering,  wagging  her  tail,  making 
peace  signs.  The  cub  could  not  understand.  He 
was  appalled.  The  awe  of  man  rushed  over  him 
again.  His  instinct  had  been  true.  His  mother 


THE  MAKERS  OF  FIRE  117 

verified  it.  She,  too,  rendered  submission  to  the 
man-animals. 

The  man  who  had  spoken  came  over  to  her.  He 
put  his  hand  upon  her  head,  and  she  only  crouched 
closer.  She  did  not  snap,  nor  threaten  to  snap. 
The  other  men  came  up,  and  surrounded  her,  and  felt 
her,  and  pawed  her,  which  actions  she  made  no  at 
tempt  to  resent.  They  were  greatly  excited,  and 
made  many  noises  with  their  mouths.  These  noises 
were  not  indications  of  danger,  the  cub  decided,  as  he 
crouched  near  his  mother,  still  bristling  from  time  to 
time  but  doing  his  best  to  submit. 

"It  is  not  strange/'  an  Indian  was  saying.  "Her 
father  was  a  wolf.  It  is  true,  her  mother  was  a  dog ; 
but  did  not  my  brother  tie  her  out  in  the  woods  all 
of  three  nights  in  the  mating  season?  Therefore 
was  the  father  of  Kiche  a  wolf." 

"It  is  a  year,  Gray  Beaver,  since  she  ran  away," 
spoke  a  second  Indian. 

"It  is  not  strange,  Salmon  Tongue,"  Gray  Beaver 
answered.  "It  was  the  time  of  the  famine,  and 
there  was  no  meat  for  the  dogs." 

"She  has  lived  with  the  wolves,"  said  a  third 
Indian. 

"So  it  would  seem,  Three  Eagles,"  Gray  Beaver 
answered,  laying  his  hand  on  the  cub ;  *  '  and  this  be 
the  sign  of  it." 

The  cub  snarled  a  little  at  the  touch  of  the  hand, 


118  WHITE  FANG 

and  the  hand  flew  back  to  administer  a  clout. 
Whereupon  the  cub  covered  its  fangs  and  sank  down 
submissively,  while  the  hand,  returning,  rubbed  be 
hind  his  ears,  and  up  and  down  his  back. 

"This  be  the  sign  of  it,"  Gray  Beaver  went  on. 
"It  is  plain  that  his  mother  is  Kiche.  But  his 
father  was  a  wolf.  Wherefore  is  there  in  him  little 
dog  and  much  wolf.  His  fangs  be  white,  and  White 
Fang  shall  be  his  name.  I  have  spoken.  He  is  my 
dog.  For  was  not  Kiche  my  brother's  dog?  And  is 
not  my  brother  dead!" 

The  cub,  who  had  thus  received  a  name  in  the 
world,  lay  and  watched.  For  a  time  the  man-an 
imals  continued  to  make  their  mouth-noises.  Then 
Gray  Beaver  took  a  knife  from  a  sheath  that  hung 
around  his  neck,  and  went  into  the  thicket  and  cut  a 
stick.  White  Fang  watched  him.  He  notched  the 
stick  at  each  end  and  in  the  notches  fastened  strings 
of  raw  hide.  One  string  he  tied  around  the  throat  of 
Kiche.  Then  he  led  her  to  a  small  pine,  around 
which  he  tied  the  other  string. 

White  Fang  followed  and  lay  down  beside  her. 
Salmon  Tongue's  hand  reached  out  to  him  and 
rolled  him  over  on  his  back.  Kiche  looked  on 
anxiously.  White  Fang  felt  fear  mounting  in  him 
again.  He  could  not  quite  suppress  a  snarl,  but  he 
made  no  offer  to  snap.  The  hand,  with  fingers 
crooked  and  spread  apart,  rubbed  his  stomach  in  a 


THE  MAKERS  OF  FIRE  119 

playful  way  and  rolled  him  from  side  to  side.  It 
was  ridiculous  and  ungainly,  lying  there  on  his  back 
with  legs  sprawling  in  the  air.  Besides,  it  was  a 
position  of  such  utter  helplessness  that  White  Fang's 
whole  nature  revolted  against  it.  He  could  do  noth 
ing  to  defend  himself.  If  this  man-animal  intended 
harm,  White  Fang  knew  that  he  could  not  escape  it. 
How  could  he  spring  away  with  his  four  legs  in  the 
air  above  him?  Yet  submission  made  him  master 
his  fear,  and  he  only  growled  softly.  This  growl 
he  could  not  suppress ;  nor  did  the  man-animal  resent 
it  by  giving  him  a  blow  on  the  head.  And  further 
more,  such  was  the  strangeness  of  it,  White  Fang 
experienced  an  unaccountable  sensation  of  pleasure 
as  the  hand  rubbed  back  and  forth.  When  he  was 
rolled  on  his  side  he  ceased  the  growl;  when  the 
fingers  pressed  and  prodded  at  the  base  of  his  ears 
the  pleasurable  sensation  increased ;  and  when,  with 
a  final  rub  and  scratch,  the  man  left  him  alone  and 
went  away,  all  fear  had  died  out  of  White  Fang. 
He  was  to  know  fear  many  times  in  his  dealings 
with  man;  yet  it  was  a  token  of  the  fearless  com 
panionship  with  man  that  was  ultimately  to  be  his. 

After  a  time,  White  Fang  heard  strange  noises 
approaching.  He  was  quick  in  his  classification,  for 
he  knew  them  at  once  for  man-animal  noises.  A 
few  minutes  later  the  remainder  of  the  tribe,  strung 
out  as  it  was  on  the  march,  trailed  in.  There  were 


120  WHITE  FANG 

more  men  and  many  women  and  children,  forty 
souls  of  them,  and  all  heavily  burdened  with  camp 
equipage  and  outfit.  Also  there  were  many  dogs; 
and  these,  with  the  exception  of  the  part-grown 
puppies,  were  likewise  burdened  with  camp  outfit. 
On  their  backs,  in  bags  that  fastened  tightly  around 
underneath,  the  dogs  carried  from  twenty  to  thirty 
pounds  of  weight. 

White  Fang  had  never  seen  dogs  before,  but  at 
sight  of  them  he  felt  that  they  were  his  own  kind, 
only  somehow  different.  But  they  displayed  little 
difference  from  the  wolf  when  they  discovered  the 
cub  and  his  mother.  There  was  a  rush.  White 
Fang  bristled  and  snarled  and  snapped  in  the  face  of 
the  open-mouthed  oncoming  wave  of  dogs,  and  went 
down  and  under  them,  feeling  the  sharp  slash  of 
teeth  in  his  body,  himself  biting  and  tearing  at  the 
legs  and  bellies  above  him.  There  was  a  great  up 
roar.  He  could  hear  the  snarl  of  Kiche  as  she 
fought  for  him;  and  he  could  hear  the  cries  of  the 
man-animals,  the  sound  of  clubs  striking  upon 
bodies,  and  the  yelps  of  pain  from  the  dogs  so 
struck. 

Only  SL  few  seconds  elapsed  before  he  was  on  his 
feet  again.  He  could  now  see  the  man-animals  driv 
ing  back  the  dogs  with  clubs  and  stones,  defending 
him,  saving  him  from  the  savage  teeth  of  his  kind 
that  somekow  was  not  his  kind.  And  though  there 


THE  MAKERS  OF  FIRE  121 

was  no  reason  in  his  brain  for  a  clear  conception  of 
so  abstract  a  thing  as  justice,  nevertheless,  in  his 
own  way,  he  felt  the  justice  of  the  man-animals,  and 
he  knew  them  for  what  they  were — makers  of  law 
and  executors  of  law.  Also,  he  appreciated  the 
power  with  which  they  administered  the  law.  Un 
like  any  animals  he  had  ever  encountered,  they  did 
not  bite  nor  claw.  They  enforced  their  live  strength 
with  the  power  of  dead  things.  Dead  things  did 
their  bidding.  Thus,  sticks  and  stones,  directed  by 
these  strange  creatures,  leaped  through  the  air  like 
living  things,  inflicting  grievous  hurts  upon  the  dogs. 

To  his  mind  this  was  power  unusual,  power  incon 
ceivable  and  beyond  the  natural,  power  that  was  god 
like.  White  Fang,  in  the  very  nature  of  him,  could 
never  know  anything  about  gods;  at  the  best  he 
could  know  only  things  that  were  beyond  knowing; 
but  the  wonder  and  awe  that  he  had  of  these  man- 
animals  in  ways  resembled  what  would  be  the  won 
der  and  awe  of  man  at  sight  of  some  celestial  cre 
ature,  on  a  mountain  top,  hurling  thunderbolts  from 
either  hand  at  an  astonished  world. 

The  last  dog  had  been  driven  back.  The  hubbub 
died  down.  And  White  Fang  licked  his  hurts  and 
meditated  upon  this,  his  first  taste  of  pack-cruelty 
and  his  introduction  to  the  pack.  He  had  never 
dreamed  that  his  own  kind  consisted  of  more  than 
One  Eye,  his  mother,  and  himself.  They  had  oonsti- 


122  WHITE  FANG 

tuted  a  kind  apart,  and  here,  abruptly,  he  had  discov 
ered  many  more  creatures  apparently  of  his  own 
kind.  And  there  was  a  subconscious  resentment 
that  these,  his  kind,  at  first  sight  had  pitched  upon 
him  and  tried  to  destroy  him.  In  the  same  way  he 
resented  his  mother  being  tied  with  a  stick,  even 
though  it  was  done  by  the  superior  man-animals.  It 
savored  of  the  trap,  of  bondage.  Yet  of  the  trap 
and  of  bondage  he  knew  nothing.  Freedom  to  roam 
and  run  and  lie  down  at  will,  had  been  his  heritage ; 
and  here  it  was  being  infringed  upon.  His  mother's 
movements  were  restricted  to  the  length  of  a  stick, 
and  by  the  length  of  that  same  stick  was  he  re 
stricted,  for  he  had  not  yet  got  beyond  the  need  of 
his  mother's  side. 

He  did  not  like  it.  Nor  did  he  like  it  when  the 
man-animals  arose  and  went  on  with  their  march; 
for  a  tiny  man-animal  took  the  other  end  of  the 
stick  and  led  Kiche  captive  behind  him,  and  behind 
Kiche  followed  White  Fang,  greatly  perturbed  and 
worried  by  this  new  adventure  he  had  entered  upon. 

They  went  down  the  valley  of  the  stream,  far  be 
yond  White  Fang's  widest  ranging,  until  they  came 
to  the  end  of  the  valley,  where  the  stream  ran  into 
the  Mackenzie  River.  Here,  where  canoes  were 
cached  on  poles  high  in  the  air  and  where  stood  fish- 
racks  for  the  drying  of  fish,  camp  was  made;  and 
White  Fang  looked  on  with  wondering  eyes.  The 


MAKKRS  OF  FIRE  123 

superiority  of  these  man-animals  increased  with 
every  moment.  There  was  their  mastery  over  all 
these  sharp-tanged  dogs.  It  breathed  of  power. 
But  greater  than  that,  to  the  wolf-cub,  was  their 
mastery  over  things  not  alive ;  their  capacity  to  com 
municate  motion  to  unmoving  things ;  their  capacity 
to  change  the  very  face  of  the  world. 

It  was  this  last  that  especially  affected  him.  The 
elevation  of  frames  of  poles  caoight  his  eye ;  yet  this 
in  itself  was  not  so  remarkable,  being  done  by  the 
same  creatures  that  flung  sticks  and  stones  to  great 
distances.  But  when  the  frames  of  poles  were  made 
into  tepees  by  being  covered  with  cloth  and  skins, 
White  Fang  was  astounded.  It  was  the  colossal  bulk 
of  them  that  impressed  him.  They  arose  around 
him,  on  every  side,  like  some  monstrous  quick-grow 
ing  form  of  life.  They  occupied  nearly  the  whole 
circumference  of  his  field  of  vision.  He  was  afraid 
of  them.  They  loomed  ominously  above  him;  and 
when  the  breeze  stirred  them  into  huge  movements, 
he  cowered  down  in  fear,  keeping  his  eyes  warily 
upon  them,  and  prepared  to  spring  away  if  they 
attempted  to  precipitate  themselves  upon  him. 

But  in  a  short  while  his  fear  of  the  tepees  passed 
away.  He  saw  the  women  and  children  passing  in 
and  out  of  them  without  harm,  and  he  saw  the  dogs 
trying  often  to  get  into  them,  and  being  driven  away 
with  sharp  words  and  flying  stones.  After  a  time, 


124  WHITE  FANG 

he  left  Kiche's  side  and  crawled  cautiously  toward 
the  wall  of  the  nearest  tepee.  It  was  the  curiosity 
of  growth  that  urged  him  on — the  necessity  of  learn 
ing  and  living  and  doing  that  brings  experience. 
The  last  few  inches  to  the  wall  of  the  tepee  were 
crawled  with  painful  slowness  and  precaution.  The 
day's  events  had  prepared  him  for  the  unknown  to 
manifest  itself  in  most  stupendous  and  unthinkable 
ways.  At  last  his  nose  touched  the  canvas.  He 
waited.  Nothing  happened.  Then  he  smelled  the 
strange  fabric  saturated  with  the  man-smell.  He 
closed  on  the  canvas  with  his  teeth  and  gave  a  gentle 
tug.  Nothing  happened,  though  the  adjacent  por 
tions  of  the  tepee  moved.  He  tugged  harder. 
There  was  a  greater  movement.  It  was  delightful. 
He  tugged  still  harder,  and  repeatedly,  until  the 
whole  tepee  was  in  motion.  Then  the  sharp  cry  of  a 
squaw  inside  sent  him  scampering  back  to  Kiche. 
But  after  that  he  was  afraid  no  more  of  the  looming 
bulks  of  the  tepees. 

A  moment  later  he  was  straying  away  again  from 
his  mother.  Her  stick  was  tied  to  a  peg  in  the 
ground  and  she  could  not  follow  him.  A  part-grown 
puppy,  somewhat  larger  and  older  than  he,  came 
toward  him  slowly,  with  ostentatious  and  belligerent 
importance.  The  puppy 's  name,  as  White  Fang  was 
afterward  to  hear  him  called,  was  Lip-lip.  He  had 


THE  MAKERS  OF  FIRE  125 

had  experience  in  puppy  fights  and  was  already 
something  of  a  bully. 

Lip-lip  was  White  Fang's  own  kind,  and,  being 
only  a  puppy,  did  not  seem  dangerous;  so  White 
Fang  prepared  to  meet  him  in  friendly  spirit.  But 
when  the  stranger 's  walk  became  stiff-legged  and  hi  s 
lips  lifted  clear  of  his  teeth,  White  Fang  stiffened, 
too,  and  answered  with  lifted  lips.  They  half  cir 
cled  about  each  other,  tentatively,  snarling  and 
bristling.  This  lasted  several  minutes,  and  White 
Fang  was  beginning  to  enjoy  it,  as  a  sort  of  game. 
But  suddenly,  with  remarkable  swiftness,  Lip-lip 
leaped  in,  delivered  a  slashing  snap,  and  leaped 
away  again.  The  snap  had  taken  effect  on  the  shoul 
der  that  had  been  hurt  by  the  lynx  and  that  was  still 
sore  deep  down  near  the  bone.  The  surprise  and 
hurt  of  it  brought  a  yelp  out  of  White  Fang;  but 
the  next  moment,  in  a  rush  of  anger,  he  was  upon 
Lip-lip  and  snapping  viciously. 

But  Lip-lip  had  lived  his  life  in  camp  and  had 
fought  many  puppy  fights.  Three  times,  four  times, 
and  half  a  dozen  times,  his  sharp  little  teeth  scored 
on  the  newcomer,  until  White  Fang,  yelping  shame 
lessly,  fled  to  the  protection  of  his  mother.  It  was 
the  first  of  the  many  fights  he  was  to  have  with 
Lip-lip,  for  they  were  enemies  from  the  start,  born 
so,  with  natures  destined  perpetually  to  clask. 


126  WHITE  FANG 

Kiche  licked  White  Fang  soothingly  with  her 
tongue,  and  tried  to  prevail  upon  him  to  remain  with 
her.  But  his  curiosity  was  rampant,  and  several 
minutes  later  he  was  venturing  forth  on  a  new  quest. 
He  came  upon  one  of  the  man-animals,  Gray  Beaver, 
who  was  squatting  on  his  hams  and  doing  some 
thing  with  sticks  and  dry  moss  spread  before  him 
on  the  ground.  White  Fang  came  near  to  him  and 
watched.  Gray  Beaver  made  mouth-noises  which 
White  Fang  interpreted  as  not  hostile,  so  he  came 
still  nearer. 

Women  and  children  were  carrying  more  sticks 
and  branches  to  Gray  Beaver.  It  was  evidently  an 
affair  of  moment.  White  Fang  came  in  until  he 
touched  Gray  Beaver's  knee,  so  curious  was  he,  and 
already  forgetful  that  this  was  a  terrible  man- 
animal.  Suddenly  he  saw  a  strange  thing  like  mist 
beginning  to  arise  from  the  sticks  and  moss  beneath 
Gray  Beaver's  hands.  Then,  amongst  the  sticks 
themselves,  appeared  a  live  thing,  twisting  and  turn 
ing,  of  a  color  like  the  color  of  the  sun  in  the  sky. 
White  Fang  knew  nothing  about  fire.  It  drew  him 
as  the  light  in  the  mouth  of  the  cave  had  drawn 
him  in  his  early  puppyhood.  He  crawled  the  several 
steps  toward  the  flame.  He  heard  Gray  Beaver 
chuckle  above  him,  and  he  knew  the  sound  was  not 
hostile.  Then  his  nose  touched  the  flame,  and  at  the 
same  instant  his  little  tongue  went  out  to  it. 


THE  MAKERS  OF  FIRE  127 

For  a  moment  he  was  paralyzed.  The  unknown, 
lurking  in  the  midst  of  the  sticks  and  moss,  was 
savagely  clutching  him  by  the  nose.  He  scrambled 
backward,  bursting  out  in  an  astonished  explosion 
of  ki-yi's.  At  the  sound,  Kiche  leaped  snarling  to 
the  end  of  her  stick,  and  there  raged  terribly  because 
she  could  not  come  to  his  aid.  But  Gray  Beaver 
laughed  loudly,  and  slapped  his  thighs,  and  told  the 
happening  to  all  the  rest  of  the  camp,  till  every 
body  was  laughing  uproariously.  But  White  Fang 
sat  on  his  haunches  and  ki-yi'd  and  ki-yi'd,  a  forlorn 
and  pitiable  little  figure  in  the  midst  of  the  man- 
animals. 

It  was  the  worst  hurt  he  had  ever  knowTn.  Both 
nose  and  tongue  had  been  scorched  by  the  live  thing, 
sun-colored,  that  had  grown  up  under  Gray  Beaver's 
hands.  He  cried  and  cried  interminably,  and  every 
fresh  wail  was  greeted  by  bursts  of  laughter  on  the 
part  of  the  man-animals.  He  tried  to  soothe  his 
nose  with  his  tongue,  but  the  tongue  was  burnt  too, 
and  the  two  hurts  coming  together  produced  greater 
hurt ;  whereupon  he  cried  more  hopelessly  and  help 
lessly  than  ever. 

And  then  shame  came  to  him.  He  knew  laughter 
and  the  meaning  of  it.  It  is  not  given  us  to  know 
how  some  animals  know  laughter,  and  know  when 
they  are  being  laughed  at ;  but  it  was  this  same  way 
that  White  Fang  knew  it.  And  he  felt  shame  that .. 


128  WHITE  FANG 

the  man-animals  should  be  laughing  at  him.  He 
turned  and  fled  away,  not  from  the  hurt  of  the  fire, 
but  from  the  laughter  that  sank  even  deeper,  and 
hurt  in  the  spirit  of  him.  And  he  fled  to  Kiclie, 
raging  at  the  end  of  her  stick  like  an  animal  gone 
mad — to  Kiche,  the  one  creature  in  the  world  who 
was  not  laughing  at  him. 

Twilight  drew  down  and  night  came  on,  and  White 
Fang  lay  by  his  mother 's  side.  His  nose  and  tongue 
still  hurt,  but  he  was  perplexed  by  a  greater  trouble. 
He  was  homesick.  He  felt  a  vacancy  in  him,  a  need 
for  the  hush  and  quietude  of  the  stream  and  the  cave 
in  the  cliff.  Life  had  become  too  populous.  There 
were  so  many  of  the  man-animals,  men,  women,  and 
children,  all  making  noises  and  irritations.  And 
there  were  the  dogs,  ever  squabbling  and  bickering, 
bursting  into  uproars  and  creating  confusions. 
The  restful  loneliness  of  the  only  life  he  had  known 
was  gone.  Here  the  very  air  was  palpitant  with 
life.  It  hummed  and  buzzed  unceasingly.  Continu 
ally  changing  its  intensity  and  abruptly  variant  in 
pitch,  it  impinged  on  his  nerves  and  senses,  made 
him  nervous  and  restless  and  worried  him  with  a  per 
petual  imminence  of  happening. 

He  watched  the  man-animals  coming  and  going 
and  moving  about  the  camp.  In  fashion  distantly 
resembling  the  way  men  look  upon  the  gods  they 
create,  so  looked  White  Fang  upon  the  man-animals 


THE  MAKERS  OF  FIRE  129 

before  him.  They  were  superior  creatures,  of  a  ver 
ity,  gods.  To  his  dim  comprehension  they  were  as 
much  wonder-workers  as  gods  are  to  men.  They 
were  creatures  of  mastery,  possessing  all  manner  of 
unknown  and  impossible  potencies,  overlords  of  the 
alive  and  the  not  alive, — making  obey  that  which 
moved,  imparting  movement  to  that  which  did  not 
move,  and  making  life,  sun-colored  and  biting  life, 
to  grow  out  of  dead  moss  and  wood.  They  were 
fire-makers!  They  were  gods  I 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   BONDAGE 

THE  days  were  thronged  with  experience  for 
White  Fang.  During  the  time  that  Kiche  was  tied 
by  the  stick,  he  ran  about  over  all  the  camp,  inquir 
ing,  investigating,  learning.  He  quickly  came  to 
know  much  of  the  ways  of  the  man-animals,  but  fa 
miliarity  did  not  breed  contempt.  The  more  he 
came  to  know  them,  the  more  they  vindicated  their 
superiority,  the  more. they  displayed  their  mysteri 
ous  powers,  the  greater  loomed  their  god-likeness. 

To  man  has  been  given  the  grief,  often,  of  seeing 
his  gods  overthrown  and  his  altars  crumbling;  but 
to  the  wolf  and  the  wild  dog  that  have  came  in  to 
crouch  at  man's  feet,  this  grief  has  never  come.  Un 
like  man,  whose  gods  are  of  the  unseen  and  the 
overguessed,  vapors  and  mists  of  fancy  eluding  the 
garmenture  of  reality,  wandering  wraiths  of  desired 
goodness  and  power,  intangible  outcroppings  of  self 
into  the  realm  of  spirit — unlike  man,  the  wolf  and 
the  wild  dog  that  have  come  in  to  the  fire  find  their 
gods  in  the  living  flesh,  solid  to  the  touch,  occupying 
earth-space  and  requiring  time  for  the  accomplish 
ment  of  their  ends  and  their  existence.  No  effort  of 


THE  BONDAGE  131 

faith  is  necessary  to  believe  in  such  a  god ;  no  effort 
of  will  can  possibly  induce  disbelief  in  such  a  god. 
There  is  no  getting  away  from  it.  There  it  stands, 
on  its  two  hind-legs,  club  in  hand,  immensely  poten 
tial,  passionate  and  wrathful  and  loving,  god  and 
mystery  and  power  all  wrapped  up  and  around  by 
flesh  that  bleeds  when  it  is  torn  and  that  is  good  to 
eat  like  any  flesh. 

And  so  it  was  with  White  Fang.  The  man-ani 
mals  were  gods  unmistakable  and  unescapable.  As 
his  mother,  Kiche,  had  rendered  her  allegiance  to 
them  at  the  first  cry  of  her  name,  so  he  was  begin 
ning  to  render  his  allegiance.  He  gave  them  the 
trail  as  a  privilege  indubitably  theirs.  When  they 
walked,  he  got  out  of  their  way.  When  they  called, 
he  came.  When  they  threatened,  he  cowered  down. 
When  they  commanded  him  to  go,  he  went  away 
hurriedly.  For  behind  any  wish  of  theirs  was  power 
to  enforce  that  wish,  power  that  hurt,  power  that 
expressed  itself  in  clouts  and  clubs,  in  flying  stones 
and  stinging  lashes  of  whips. 

He  belonged  to  them  as  all  dogs  belonged  to  them. 
His  actions  were  theirs  to  command.  His  body  was 
theirs  to  maul,  to  stamp  upon,  to  tolerate.  Such  was 
the  lesson  that  was  quickly  borne  in  upon  him.  It 
came  hard,  going  as  it  did,  counter  to  much  that  was 
strong  and  dominant  in  his  own  nature;  and,  while 
he  disliked  it  in  the  learning  of  it,  unknown  to  him- 


132  WHITE  FANG 

self  he  was  learning  to  like  it.  It  was  a  placing  of 
his  destiny  in  another's  hands,  a  shifting  of  the  re 
sponsibilities  of  existence.  This  in  itself  was  com 
pensation,  for  it  is  always  easier  to  lean  upon  an 
other  than  to  stand  alone. 

But  it  did  not  all  happen  in  a  day,  this  giving  over 
of  himself,  body  and  soul,  to  the  man-animals.  He 
could  not  immediately  forego  his  wild  heritage  and 
his  memories  of  the  Wild.  There  were  days  when 
he  crept  to  the  edge  of  the  forest  and  stood  and  lis 
tened  to  something  calling  him  far  and  away.  And 
always  he  returned,  restless  and  uncomfortable,  to 
whimper  softly  and  wistfully  at  Kiche's  side  and  to 
lick  her  face  with  eager,  questioning  tongue. 

White  Fang  learned  rapidly  the  ways  of  the  camp. 
He  knew  the  injustice  and  greediness  of  the  older 
dogs  when  meat  or  fish  was  thrown  out  to  be  eaten. 
He  came  to  know  that  men  were  more  just,  children 
more  cruel,  and  women  more  kindly  and  more  likely 
to  toss  him  a  bit  of  meat  or  bone.  And  after  two 
or  three  painful  adventures  with  the  mothers  of 
part-grown  puppies,  he  came  into  the  knowledge  that 
it  was  always  good  policy  to  let  such  mothers  alone, 
to  keep  away  from  them  as  far  as  possible,  and  to 
avoid  them  when  he  saw  them  coming. 

But  the  bane  of  Jiis  life  was  Lip-lip.  Larger, 
older,  and  stronger,  Lip-lip  had  selected  White 
Fang  for  his  special  object  of  persecution.  White 


THE  BONDAGE  133 

Fang  fought  willingly  enough,  but  he  was  outclassed. 
His  enemy  was  too  big.  Lip-lip  became  a  night 
mare  to  him.  Whenever  he  ventured  away  from  his 
mother,  the  bully  was  sure  to  appear,  trailing  at  his 
heels,  snarling  at  him,  picking  upon  him,  and  watch 
ful  of  an  opportunity,  when  no  man-animal  was  near, 
to  spring  upon  him  and  force  a  fight.  As  Lip-lip  in 
variably  won,  he  enjoyed  it  hugely.  It  became  his 
chief  delight  in  life,  as  it  became  White  Fang's  chief 
torment. 

But  the  effect  upon  White  Fang  was  not  to  cow 
him.  Though  he  suffered  most  of  the  damage  and 
was  always  defeated,  his  spirit  remained  unsubdued. 
Yet  a  bad  effect  was  produced.  He  became  malig 
nant  and  morose.  His  temper  had  been  savage  by 
birth,  but  it  became  more  savage  under  this  unend 
ing  persecution.  The  genial,  playful,  puppyish  side 
of  him  found  little  expression.  He  never  played  and 
gambolled  about  with  the  other  puppies  of  the  camp. 
Lip-lip  would  not  permit  it.  The  moment  White 
Fang  appeared  near  them,  Lip-lip  was  upon  him, 
bullying  and  hectoring  him,  or  fighting  with  him 
until  he  had  driven  him  away. 

The  effect  of  all  this  was  to  rob  White  Fang  of 
much  of  his  puppyhood  and  to  make  him  in  his  com 
portment  older  than  his  age.     Denied  the  outlet, 
through  play,  of  his  energies,  he  recoiled  upon  him 
self  and  developed  his  mental  processes.    He  became 


134  WHITE  FAJNU 

cunning ;  he  had  idle  time  in  which  to  devote  himself 
to  thoughts  of  trickery.  Prevented  from  obtaining 
his  share  of  meat  and  fish  when  a  general  feed  was 
given  to  the  camp-dogs,  he  became  a  clever  thief. 
He  had  to  forage  for  himself,  and  he  foraged  well, 
though  he  was  ofttimes  a  plague  to  the  squaws  in 
consequence.  He  learned  to  sneak  about  camp,  to 
be  crafty,  to  know  what  was  going  on  everywhere, 
to  see  and  to  hear  everything  and  to  reason  accord 
ingly,  and  successfully  to  devise  ways  and  means  of 
avoiding  his  implacable  persecutor. 

It  was  early  in  the  days  of  his  persecution  that  he 
played  his  first  really  big  crafty  game  and  got  there 
from  his  first  taste  of  revenge.  As  Kiche,  when 
with  the  wolves,  had  lured  out  to  destruction  dogs 
from  the  camps  of  men,  so  White  Fang,  in  manner 
somewhat  similar,  lured  Lip-lip  into  Kiche 's  aveng 
ing  jaws.  Eetreating  before  Lip-lip,  White  Fang 
made  an  indirect  flight  that  led  in  and  out  and 
around  the  various  tepees  of  the  camp.  He  was  a 
good  runner,  swifter  than  any  other  puppy  of  his 
size,  and  swifter  than  Lip-lip.  But  he  did  not  run 
his  best  in  this  chase.  He  barely  held  his  own,  one 
leap  ahead  of  his  pursuer. 

Lip-lip,  excited  by  the  chase  and  by  the  persistent 
nearness  of  his  victim,  forgot  caution  and  locality. 
When  he  remembered  locality,  it  was  too  late. 
Dashing  at  top  speed  around  a  tepee,  he  ran  full  tilt 


THE  BONDAGE  135 

into  Kiche  lying  at  the  end  of  her  stick.  He  gave 
one  yelp  of  consternation,  and  then  her  punishing 
jaws  closed  upon  him.  She  was  tied,  but  he  could 
not  get  away  from  her  easily.  She  rolled  him  off  his 
legs  so  that  he  could  not  run,  while  she  repeatedly 
ripped  and  slashed  him  with  her  fangs. 

When  at  last  he  succeeded  in  rolling  clear  of  her, 
he  crawled  to  his  feet,  badly  dishevelled,  hurt  both  in 
body  and  in  spirit.  His  hair  was  standing  out  all 
over  him  in  tufts  where  her  teeth  had  mauled.  He 
stood  where  he  had  arisen,  opened  his  mouth,  and 
broke  out  the  long,  heart-broken  puppy  wail.  But 
even  this  he  was  not  allowed  to  complete.  In  the 
middle  of  it,  White  Fang,  rushing  in,  sank  his  teeth 
into  Lip-lip's  hind  leg.  There  was  no  fight  left  in 
Lip-lip,  and  he  ran  away  shamelessly,  his  victim  hot 
on  his  heels  and  worrying  him  all  the  way  back  to 
his  own  tepee.  Here  the  squaws  came  to  his  aid, 
and  White  Fang,  transformed  into  a  raging  demon, 
was  finally  driven  off  only  by  a  fusillade  of  stones. 

Came  the  day  when  Gray  Beaver,  deciding  that 
the  liability  of  her  running  away  was  past,  released 
Kiche.  White  Fang  was  delighted  with  his  mother's 
freedom.  He  accompanied  her  joyfully  about  the 
camp ;  and,  so  long  as  he  remained  close  by  her  side, 
Lip-lip  kept  a  respectful  distance.  White  Fang  even 
bristled  up  to  him  and  walked  stiff-legged,  but  Lip- 
lip  ignored  the  challenge.  He  was  no  fool  himself, 


136  WHITE  FANG 

and  whatever  vengeance  he  desired  to  wreak,  he 
could  wait  until  he  caught  White  Fang  alone. 

Later  on  that  day,  Kiche  and  White  Fang  strayed 
into  the  edge  of  the  woods  next  to  the  camp.  He 
had  led  his  mother  there,  step  by  step,  and  now, 
when  she  stopped,  he  tried  to  inveigle  her  farther. 
The  stream,  the  lair,  and  the  quiet  woods  were  call 
ing  to  him,  and  he  wanted  her  to  come.  He  ran 
on  a  few  steps,  stopped,  and  looked  back.  She  had 
not  moved.  He  whined  pleadingly,  and  scurried 
playfully  in  and  out  of  the  underbrush.  He  ran 
back  to  her,  licked  her  face,  and  ran  on  again.  And 
still  she  did  not  move.  He  stopped  and  regarded 
her,  all  of  an  intentness  and  eagerness,  physically 
expressed,  that  slowly  faded  out  of  him  as  she  turned 
her  head  and  gazed  back  at  the  camp. 

There  was  something  calling  to  him  out  there  in 
the  open.  His  mother  heard  it,  too.  But  she  heard 
also  that  other  and  louder  call,  the  call  of  the  fire 
and  of  man — the  call  which  it  has  been  given  alone 
of  all  animals  to  the  wolf  to  answer,  to  the  wolf  and 
the  wild-dog,  who  are  brothers. 

Kiche  turned  and  slowly  trotted  back  toward 
camp.  Stronger  than  the  physical  restraint  of  the 
stick  was  the  clutch  of  the  camp  upon  her.  Unseen 
and  occultly,  the  gods  still  gripped  with  their  power 
and  would  not  let  her  go.  White  Fang  sat  down  in 
the  shadow  of  a  birch  and  whimpered  softly.  There 


THE  BONDAGE  137 

was  a  strong  smell  of  pine,  and  subtle  woods  fra 
grances  filled  the  air,  reminding  him  of  his  old  life 
of  freedom  before  the  days  of  his  bondage.  But  he 
was  still  only  a  part-grown  puppy,  and  stronger 
than  the  call  either  of  man  or  of  the  Wild  was  the 
call  of  his  mother.  All  the  hours  of  his  short  life 
he  had  depended  upon  her.  The  time  was  yet  to 
come  for  independence.  So  he  arose  and  trotted 
forlornly  back  to  camp,  pausing  once,  and  twice,  to 
sit  down  and  whimper  and  to  listen  to  the  call  that 
still  sounded  in  the  depths  of  the  forest. 

In  the  Wild  the  time  of  a  mother  with  her  young  is 
short ;  but  under  the  dominion  of  man  it  is  sometimes 
even  shorter.  Thus  it  was  with  White  Fang.  Gray 
Beaver  was  in  the  debt  of  Three  Eagles.  Three 
Eagles  was  going  away  on  a  trip  up  the  Mackenzie 
to  the  Great  Slave  Lake.  A  strip  of  scarlet  cloth,  a 
bearskin,  twenty  cartridges,  and  Kiche,  went  to  pay 
the  debt.  White  Fang  saw  his  mother  taken  aboard 
Three  Eagles'  canoe,  and  tried  to  follow  her.  A 
blow  from  Three  Eagles  knocked  him  backward  to 
the  land.  The  canoe  shoved  off.  He  sprang  into 
the  water  and  swam  after  it,  deaf  to  the  sharp  cries 
of  Gray  Beaver  to  return.  Even  a  man-animal,  a 
god,  White  Fang  ignored,  such  was  the  terror  he  was 
in  of  losing  his  mother. 

But  gods  are  accustomed  to  being  obeyed,  and 
Gray  Beaver  wrathfully  launched  a  canoe  in  pursuit. 


138  WHITE  FANG 

When  he  overtook  White  Fang,  he  reached  down  and 
by  the  nape  of  the  neck  lifted  him  clear  of  the  water. 
He  did  not  deposit  him  at  once  in  the  bottom  of  the 
canoe.  Holding  him  suspended  with  one  hand,  with 
the  other  hand  he  proceeded  to  give  him  a  beating. 
And  it  was  a  beating.  His  hand  was  heavy.  Every 
blow  was  shrewd  to  hurt ;  and  he  delivered  a  multi 
tude  of  blows. 

Impelled  by  the  blows  that  rained  upon  him,  now 
from  this  side,  now  from  that,  White  Fang  swung 
back  and  forth  like  an  erratic  and  jerky  pendulum. 
Varying  were  the  emotions  that  surged  through  him. 
Xt  first  he  had  known  surprise.  Then  came  a  mo 
mentary  fear,  when  he  yelped  several  times  to  the 
Lapact  of  the  hand.  But  this  was  quickly  followed 
by  anger.  His  free  nature  asserted  itself,  and  he 
showed  his  teeth  and  snarled  fearlessly  in  the  face 
of  £he  wrathful  god.  This  but  served  to  make  the 
god  snore  wrathful.  The  blows  came  faster,  heavier, 
more  shrewd  to  hurt. 

Gray  Beaver  continued  to  beat.  White  Fang  con 
tinued  to  snarl.  But  this  could  not  last  forever. 
One  or  the  other  must  give  over  and  that  one  was 
White  Fang.  Fear  surged  through  him  again. 
For  the  first  time  he  was  really  being  man-handled. 
The  occasional  blows  of  sticks  and  stones  he  had 
previously  experienced  were  as  caresses  compared 
with  this.  He  broke  down  and  began  to  cry  and  yelp. 


THE  BONDAGE  139 

For  a  time  each  blow  brought  a  yelp  from  him;  but 
fear  passed  into  terror,  until  finally  his  yelps  were 
voiced  in  unbroken  succession,  unconnected  with  the 
rhythm  of  the  punishment. 

At  last  Gray  Beaver  withheld  his  hand.  White 
Fang,  hanging  limply,  continued  to  cry.  This 
seemed  to  satisfy  his  master,  who  flung  him  down 
roughly  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe.  In  the  meantime 
the  canoe  had  drifted  down  the  stream.  Gray 
Beaver  picked  up  the  paddle.  White  Fang  was  in 
his  way.  He  spurned  him  savagely  with  his  foot. 
In  that  moment  White  Fang's  free  nature  flashed 
forth  again,  and  he  sunk  his  teeth  into  the  moc- 
casined  foot. 

The  beating  that  had  gone  tefore  was  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  beating  he  now  received.  Gray 
Beaver's  wrath  was  terrible;  likewise  was  White 
Fang's  fright.  Not  only  the  hand,  but  the  hard 
wooden  paddle  was  used  upon  him;  and  he  was 
bruised  and  sore  in  all  his  small  body  when  he  was 
again  flung  down  in  the  canoe.  Again,  and  this 
time  with  purpose,  did  Gray  Beaver  kick  him. 
White  Fang  did  not  repeat  his  attack  on  the  foot. 
He  had  learned  another  lesson  of  his  bondage. 
Never,  no  matter  what  the  circumstance,  must  he 
dare  to  bite  the  god  who  was  lord  and  master  over 
him;  the  body  of  the  lord  and  master  was  sacred, 
not  to  be  defiled  by  the  teeth  of  such  as  he.  That 


140  WHITE  FANG 

was  evidently  the  crime  of  crimes,  the  one  offence 
there  was  no  condoning  nor  overlooking. 

When  the  canoe  touched  the  shore,  White  Fang 
lay  whimpering  and  motionless,  waiting  the  will  of 
Gray  Beaver.  It  was  Gray  Beaver's  will  that  he 
should  go  ashore,  for  ashore  he  was  flung,  striking 
heavily  on  his  side  and  hurting  his  bruises  afresh. 
He  crawled  tremblingly  to  his  feet  and  stood  whim 
pering.  Lip-lip,  who  had  watched  the  whole  pro 
ceeding  from  the  bank,  now  rushed  upon  him,  knock 
ing  him  over  and  sinking  his  teeth  into  him.  White 
Fang  was  too  helpless  to  defend  himself,  and  it  would 
have  gone  hard  with  him  had  not  Gray  Beaver's  foot 
shot  out,  lifting  Lip-lip  into  the  air  with  its  violence 
so  that  he  smashed  down  to  earth  a  dozen  feet  away. 
This  was  the  man-animal  7s  justice ;  and  even  then,  in 
his  own  pitiable  plight,  White  Fang  experienced  a 
little  grateful  thrill.  At  Gray  Beaver's  heels  he 
limped  obediently  through  the  village  to  the  tepee. 
And  so  it  came  that  White  Fang  learned  that  the 
right  to  punish  was  something  the  gods  reserved  for 
themselves  and  denied  to  the  lesser  creatures  under 
them. 

That  night,  when  all  was  still,  White  Fang  remem 
bered  his  mother  and  sorrowed  for  her.  He  sor 
rowed  too  loudly  and  woke  up  Gray  Beaver,  who 
beat  him.  After  that  he  mourned  gently  when  the 


THE  BONDAGE  141 

gods  were  around.  But  sometimes,  straying  off  to 
the  edge  of  the  woods  by  himself,  he  gave  vent  to 
his  grief,  and  cried  it  out  with  loud  whimperings  and 
wai  lings. 

It  was  during  this  period  that  he  might  have 
hearkened  to  the  memories  of  the  lair  and  the  stream 
and  run  back  into  the  Wild.  But  the  memory  of  his 
mother  held  him.  As  the  hunting  man-animals  went 
out  and  came  back,  so  she  would  come  back  to  the 
village  sometime.  So  he  remained  in  his  bondage 
waiting  for  her. 

But  it  was  not  altogether  an  unhappy  bondage. 
There  was  much  to  interest  him.  Something  was 
always  happening.  There  was  no  end  to  the  strange 
things  these  gods  did,  and  he  was  always  curious  to 
see.  Besides,  he  was  learning  how  to  get  along  with 
Gray  Beaver.  Obedience,  rigid,  undeviating  obedi 
ence,  was  what  was  expected  of  him;  and  in  return 
he  escaped  beatings  and  his  existence  was  tolerated. 

Nay,  Gray  Beaver  himself  sometimes  tossed  him  a 
piece  of  meat,  and  defended  him  against  the  other 
dogs  in  the  eating  of  it  And  such  a  piece  of  meat 
was  of  value.  It  was  worth  more,  in  some  strange 
way,  than  a  dozen  pieces  of  meat  from  the  hand  of  a 
squaw.  Gray  Beaver  never  petted  nor  caressed. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  weight  of  his  hand,  perhaps  his 
justice,  perhaps  the  sheer  power  of  him,  and  perhaps 


142  WHITE  FANG 

it  was  all  these  things  that  influenced  White  Fang; 
for  a  certain  tie  of  attachment  was  forming  between 
him  and  his  surly  lord. 

Insidiously,  and  by  remote  ways,  as  well  as  by  the 
power  of  stick  and  stone  and  clout  of  hand,  were  the 
shackles  of  White  Fang's  bondage  being  riveted 
upon  him.  The  qualities  in  his  kind  that  in  the  be 
ginning  made  it  possible  for  them  to  come  into  the 
fires  of  men,  were  qualities  capable  of  development. 
They  were  developing  in  him,  and  the  camp-life,  re 
plete  with  misery  as  it  was,  was  secretly  endearing 
itself  to  him  all  the  time.  But  White  Fang  was  un 
aware  of  it.  He  knew  only  grief  for  the  loss  of 
Kiche,  hope  for  her  return,  and  a  hungry  yearning 
for  the  free  life  that  had  been  his. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   OUTCAST 

LIP-LIP  continued  so  to  darken  his  days  that  White 
Fang  became  wickeder  and  more  ferocious  than  it 
was  his  natural  right  to  be.  Savageness  was  a  part 
of  his  make-up,  but  the  savageness  thus  developed 
exceeded  his  make-up.  He  acquired  a  reputation 
for  wickedness  amongst  the  man-animals  themselves. 
Wherever  there  was  trouble  and  uproar  in  camp, 
fighting  and  squabbling  or  the  outcry  of  a  squaw 
over  a  bit  of  stolen  meat,  they  were  sure  to  find 
White  Fang  mixed  up  in  it  and  usually  at  the  bottom 
of  it.  They  did  not  bother  to  look  after  the  causes 
of  his  conduct.  They  saw  only  the  effects,  and  the 
effects  were  bad.  He  was  a  sneak  and  a  thief,  a 
mischief-maker,  a  fomenter  of  trouble;  and  irate 
squaws  told  him  to  his  face,  the  while  he  eyed  them 
alert  and  ready  to  dodge  any  quick-flung  missile,  that 
he  was  a  wolf  and  worthless  and  bound  to  come  to 
an  evil  end 

He  found  himself  an  outcast  in  the  midst  of  the 
populous  camp.  All  the  young  dogs  followed  Lip- 
lip  's  lead.  There  was  a  difference  between  White 
Fang  and  them.  Perhaps  they  sensed  his  wild-wood 

143 


144  WHITE  FANG 

breed,  and  instinctively  felt  for  him  the  enmity  that 
the  domestic  dog  feels  for  the  wolf.  But  be  that 
as  it  may,  they  joined  with  Lip-lip  in  the  persecu 
tion.  And,  once  declared  against  him,  they  found 
good  reason  to  continue  declared  against  him.  One 
and  all,  from  time  to  time,  they  felt  his  teeth ;  and  to 
his  credit,  he  gave  more  than  he  received.  Many  of 
them  he  could  whip  in  a  single  fight ;  but  single  fight 
was  denied  him.  The  beginning  of  such  a  fight  was 
a  signal  for  all  the  young  dogs  in  camp  to  come  run 
ning  and  pitch  upon  him. 

Out  of  this  pack-persecution  he  learned  two  im 
portant  things:  how  to  take  care  of  himself  in  a 
mass-fight  against  him ;  and  how,  on  a  single  dog,  to 
inflict  the  greatest  amount  of  damage  in  the  briefest 
space  of  time.  To  keep  one 's  feet  in  the  midst  of  the 
hostile  mass  meant  life,  and  this  he  learned  well.  He 
became  cat-like  in  his  ability  to  stay  on  his  feet. 
Even  grown  dogs  might  hurtle  him  backward  or 
sideways  with  the  impact  of  their  heavy  bodies ;  and 
backward  or  sideways  he  would  go,  in  the  air  or 
sliding  on  the  ground,  but  always  with  his  legs  under 
him  and  his  feet  downward  to  the  mother  earth. 

When  dogs  fight,  there  are  usually  preliminaries 
to  the  actual  combat-1— snarlings  and  bristlings  and 
stiff-legged  struttings.  But  White  Fang  learned  to 
omit  these  preliminaries.  Delay  meant  the  coming 
against  him  of  all  the  young  dogs.  He  must  do  his 


THE  OUTCAST  145 

work  quickly  and  get  away.  So  he  learned  to  give 
no  warning  of  his  intention.  He  rushed  in  and 
snapped  and  slashed  on  the  instant,  without  notice, 
before  his  foe  could  prepare  to  meet  him.  Thus  he 
learned  how  to  inflict  quick  and  severe  damage. 
Also  he  learned  the  value  of  surprise.  A  dog,  taken 
off  its  guard,  its  shoulder  slashed  open  or  its  ear 
ripped  in  ribbons  before  it  knew  what  was  happen 
ing,  was  a  dog  half  whipped. 

Furthermore  it  was  remarkably  easy  to  overthrow 
a  dog  taken  by  surprise;  while  a  dog,  thus  over 
thrown,  invariably  exposed  for  a  moment  the  soft 
underside  of  its  neck — the  vulnerable  point  at  which 
to  strike  for  its  life.  White  Fang  knew  this  point. 
It  was  a  knowledge  bequeathed  to  him  directly  from 
the  hunting  generations  of  wolves.  So  it  was  that 
White  Fang's  method  when  he  took  the  offensive, 
was :  first,  to  find  a  young  dog  alone ;  second,  to  sur 
prise  it  and  knock  it  off  its  feet ;  and  third,  to  drive 
in  with  his  teeth  at  the  soft  throat. 

Being  but  partly  grown,  his  jaws  had  not  yet 
become  large  enough  nor  strong  enough  to  make  his 
throat-attack  deadly;  but  many  a  young  dog  went 
around  camp  with  a  lacerated  throat  in  token  of 
White  Fang's  intention.  And  one  day,  catching  one 
of  his  enemies  alone  on  the  edge  of  the  woods,  he 
managed,  by  repeatedly  overthrowing  him  and  at 
tacking  the  throat,  to  cut  the  great  vein  and  let  out 


146  WHITE  FANG 

the  life.  There  had  been  a  great  row  that  night. 
He  had  been  observed,  the  news  had  been  carried  to 
the  dead  dog's  master,  the  squaws  remembered  all 
the  instances  of  the  stolen  meat,  and  Gray  Beaver 
was  beset  by  many  angry  vaices.  But  he  resolutely 
held  the  door  of  his  tepee,  inside  which  he  had  placed 
the  culprit,  and  refused  to  permit  the  vengeance  for 
which  his  tribespeople  clamored. 

White  Fang  became  hated  by  man  and  dog.  Dur 
ing  this  period  of  his  development  he  never  knew  a 
moment's  security.  The  tooth  of  every  dog  was 
against  him,  the  hand  of  every  man.  He  was 
greeted  with  snarls  by  his  kind,  with  curses  and 
stones  by  his  gods.  He  lived  tensely.  He  was  al 
ways  keyed  up,  alert  for  attack,  wary  of  being  at 
tacked,  with  an  eye  for  sudden  and  unexpected  mis 
siles,  prepared  to  act  precipitately  and  coolly,  to  leap 
in  with  a  flash  of  teeth,  or  to  leap  away  with  a  menac 
ing  snarl. 

As  for  snarling,  he  could  snarl  more  terribly  than 
any  dog,  young  or  old,  in  camp.  The  intent  of  the 
snarl  is  to  warn  or  frighten,  and  judgment  is  re 
quired  to  know  when  it  should  be  used.  White  Fang 
knew  how  to  make  it  and  when  to  make  it.  Into  his 
snarl  he  incorporated '  all  that  was  vicious,  malig 
nant,  and  horrible.  With  nose  serrulated  by  con 
tinuous  spasms,  hair  bristling  in  recurrent  waves, 
tongue  whipping  out  like  a  red  snake  and  whipping 


THE  OUTCAST  147 

back  again,  ears  flattened  down,  eyes  gleaming 
hatred,  lips  wrinkled  back,  and  fangs  exposed  and 
dripping,  he  could  compel  °  pause  on  the  part  of  al 
most  any  assailant.  A  t  porary  pause,  when  taken 
off  his  guard,  gave  him  the  vital  moment  in  which  to 
think  and  determine  his  action.  But  often  a  pause 
so  gained  lengthened  out  until  it  evolved  into  a  com 
plete  cessation  from  the  attack.  And  before  more 
than  one  of  the  grown  dogs  White  Fang's  snarl  en 
abled  him  to  beat  an  honorable  retreat. 

An  outcast  himself  from  the  pack  of  the  part- 
grown  dogs,  his  sanguinary  methods  and  remarkable 
efficiency  made  the  pack  pay  for  its  persecution  of 
him.  Not  permitted  himself  to  run  with  the  pack, 
the  curious  state  of  affairs  obtained  that  no  member 
of  the  pack  could  run  outside  the  pack.  White  Fang 
would  not  permit  it.  What  of  his  bushwhacking  and 
waylaying  tactics,  the  young  dogs  were  afraid  to  run 
by  themselves.  With  the  exception  of  Lip-lip,  they 
were  compelled  to  bunch  together  for  mutual  pro 
tection  against  the  terrible  enemy  they  had  made. 
A  puppy  alone  by  the  river  bank  meant  a  puppy  dead 
or  a  puppy  that  aroused  the  camp  with  its  shrill 
pain  and  terror  as  it  fled  back  from  the  wolf-cub  that 
had  waylaid  it. 

But  White  Fang's  reprisals  did  not  cease,  even 
when  the  young  dogs  had  learned  thoroughly  that 
they  must  stay  together.  He  attacked  them  when 


148  WHITE  FANG 

he  caught  them  alone,  and  they  attacked  him  when 
they  were  bunched.  The  sight  of  him  was  sufficient 
to  start  them  rushing  after  him,  at  which  times  his 
swiftness  usually  carried  him  into  safety.  But  woe 
to  the  dog  that  outran  his  fellows  in  such  pursuit! 
White  Fang  had  learned  to  turn  suddenly  upon  the 
pursuer  that  was  ahead  of  the  pack  and  thoroughly 
to  rip  him  up  before  the  pack  could  arrive.  This 
occurred  with  great  frequency,  for,  once  in  full  cry, 
the  dogs  were  prone  to  forget  themselves  in  the  ex 
citement  of  the  chase,  while  White  Fang  never  for 
got  himself.  Stealing  backward  glances  as  he  ran, 
he  was  always  ready  to  whirl  around  and  down  the 
overzealous  pursuer  that  outran  his  fellows. 

Young  dogs  are  bound  to  play,  and  out  of  the  exi 
gencies  of  the  situation  they  realized  their  play  in 
this  mimic  warfare.  Thus  it  was  that  the  hunt  of 
White  Fang  became  their  chief  game — a  deadly 
game,  withal,  and  at  all  times  a  serious  game.  He, 
on  the  other  hand,  being  the  fastest-footed,  was  un 
afraid  to  venture  anywhere.  During  the  period  that 
he  waited  vainly  for  his  mother  to  come  back,  he  led 
the  pack  many  a  wild  chase  through  the  adjacent 
woods.  But  the  pack  invariably  lost  him.  Its  noise 
and  outcry  warned  him  of  its  presence,  while  he  ran 
alone,  velvet-footed,  silently,  a  moving  shadow 
among  the  trees  after  the  manner  of  his  father  and 
mother  before  him.  Further,  he  was  more  directly 


THE  OUTCAST  149 

connected  with  the  wild  than  they;  and  he  knew 
more  of  its  secrets  and  stratagems.  A  favorite  trick 
of  his  was  to  lose  his  trail  in  running  water  and  then 
lie  quietly  in  a  near-by  thicket  while  their  baffled 
cries  arose  around  him. 

Hated  by  his  kind  and  by  mankind,  indomitable, 
perpetually  warred  upon  and  himself  waging  perpet 
ual  war,  his  development  was  rapid  and  one-sided. 
This  was  no  soil  for  kindliness  and  affection  to 
blossom  in.  Of  such  things  he  had  not  the  faintest 
glimmering.  The  code  he  learned  was  to  obey  the 
strong  and  to  oppress  the  weak.  Gray  Beaver  was 
a  god,  and  strong.  Therefore  White  Fang  obeyed 
him.  But  the  dog  younger  or  smaller  than  himself 
was  weak,  a  thing  to  be  destroyed.  His  development 
was  in  the  direction  of  power.  In  order  to  face  the 
constant  danger  of  hurt  and  even  of  destruction,  his 
predatory  and  protective  faculties  were  unduly  de 
veloped.  He  became  quicker  of  movement  than  the 
other  dogs,  swifter  of  foot,  craftier,  deadlier,  more 
lithe,  more  lean  with  ironlike  muscle  and  sinew, 
more  enduring,  more  cruel,  more  ferocious,  and  more 
intelligent.  He  had  to  become  all  these  things,  else 
he  would  not  have  held  his  own  nor  survived  the 
hostile  environment  in  which  he  found  himself. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    TKAIL   OF    THE   GODS 

IN  the  fall  of  the  year  when  the  days  were  short 
ening  and  the  bite  of  the  frost  was  coming  into  the 
air,  White  Fang  got  his  chance  for  liberty.  For  sev 
eral  days  there  had  been  a  great  hubbub  in  the  vil 
lage.  The  summer  camp  was  being  dismantled, 
and  the  tribe,  bag  and  baggage,  was  preparing  to  go 
off  to  the  fall  hunting.  White  Fang  watched  it  all 
with  eager  eyes,  and  when  the  tepees  began  to  come 
down  and  the  canoes  were  loading  at  the  bank,  he 
understood.  Already  the  canoes  were  departing, 
and  some  had  disappeared  down  the  river. 

Quite  deliberately  he  determined  to  stay  behind. 
He  waited  his  opportunity  to  slink  out  of  camp  to 
the  woods.  Here  in  the  running  stream  where  ice 
was  beginning  to  form,  he  hid  his  trail.  Then  he 
crawled  into  the  heart  of  a  dense  thicket  and  waited. 
The  time  passed  by  and  he  slept  intermittently  for 
hours.  Then  he  was  aroused  by  Gray  Beaver's 
voice  calling  him  by  name.  There  were  other  voices. 
White  Fang  could  hear  Gray  Beaver's  squaw  taking 
part  in  the  search,  and  Mit-sah,  who  was  Gray 
Beaver's  son. 

150 


THE  TRAIL  Oi-'  TIIK  (JODS  151 

White  Fang  trembled  with  fear,  and  though  the 
impulse  came  to  ciawl  out  of  his  hiding-place,  he 
resisted  it.  After  a  time  the  voices  died  away,  and 
some  time  after  that  he  crept  out  to  enjoy  the  success 
of  his  undertaking.  Darkness  was  coming  on,  and 
for  awhile  he  played  about  among  the  trees,  pleas 
uring  his  freedom.  Then,  and  quite  suddenly,  he 
became  aware  of  loneliness.  He  sat  down  to  con 
sider,  listening  to  the  silence  of  the  forest  and  per 
turbed  by  it.  That  nothing  moved  nor  sounded, 
seemed  ominous.  He  felt  the  lurking  of  danger, 
unseen  and  unguessed.  He  was  suspicious  of  the 
looming  bulks  of  the  trees  and  of  the  dark  shadows 
that  might  conceal  all  manner  of  perilous  things. 

Then  it  was  cold.  Here  was  no  warm  side  of  a 
tepee  against  which  to  snuggle.  The  frost  was  in 
his  feet,  and  he  kept  lifting  first  one  fore-foot  and 
then  the  other.  He  curved  his  bushy  tail  around  to 
cover  them,  and  at  the  same  time  he  saw  a  vision. 
There  was  nothing  strange  about  it.  Upon  his  in 
ward  sight  was  impressed  a  succession  of  memory- 
pictures.  He  saw  the  camp  again,  the  tepees,  and 
the  blaze  of  the  fires.  He  heard  the  shrill  voices  of 
the  women,  the  gruff  basses  of  the  men,  and  the 
snarling  of  the  dogs.  He  was  hungry,  and  he  remem 
bered  pieces  of  meat  and  fish  that  had  been  thrown 
him.  Here  was  no  meat,  nothing  but  a  threatening 
and  inedible  silence. 


152  WHITE  YAXG 

His  bondage  had  softened  him.  Irresponsibility 
had  weakend  him.  He  had  forgotten  how  to  shift 
for  himself.  The  night  yawned  about  him.  His 
senses,  accustomed  to  the  hum  and  bustle  of  the 
camp,  used  to  the  continuous  impact  of  sights  and 
sounds,  were  now  left  idle.  There  was  nothing  to 
do,  nothing  to  see  nor  hear.  They  strained  to  catch 
some  interruption  of  the  silence  and  immobility  of 
nature.  They  were  appalled  by  inaction  and  by  the 
feel  of  something  terrible  impending. 

He  gave  a  great  start  of  fright.  A  colossal  and 
formless  something  was  rushing  across  the  field  of 
his  vision.  It  was  a  tree-shadow  flung  by  the  moon, 
from  whose  face  the  clouds  had  been  brushed  away. 
Eeassured,  he  whimpered  softly ;  then  he  suppressed 
the  whimper  for  fear  that  it  might  attract  the  atten 
tion  of  the  lurking  dangers. 

A  tree,  contracting  in  the  cool  of  the  night,  made  a 
loud  noise.  It  was  directly  above  him.  He  yelped 
in  his  fright.  A  panic  seized  him,  and  he  ran  madly 
toward  the  village.  He  knew  an  overpowering  de 
sire  for  the  protection  and  companionship  of  man. 
In  his  nostrils  was  the  smell  of  the  camp-smoke.  In 
his  ears  the  camp  sounds  and  cries  were  ringing 
loud.  He  passed  out  of  the  forest  and  into  the 
moonlit  open  where  were  no  shadows  nor  darknesses. 
But  no  village  greeted  his  eyes.  He  had  forgotten. 
The  village  had  gone  away. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  GODS  153 

His  wild  flight  ceased  abruptly.  There  was  no 
place  to  which  to  flee.  He  sunk  forlornly  through 
the  deserted  camp,  smelling  the  rubbish-heaps  and 
the  discarded  rags  and  tags  of  the  gods.  He  would 
have  been  glad  for  the  rattle  of  the  stones  about  him, 
flung  by  an  angry  squaw,  glad  for  the  hand  of  Gray 
Beaver  descending  upon  him  in  wrath;  while  he 
would  have  welcomed  with  delight  Lip-lip  and  the 
whole  snarling,  cowardly  pack. 

He  came  to  where  Gray  Beaver's  tepee  had  stood. 
In  the  centre  of  the  space  it  had  occupied,  he  sat 
down.  He  pointed  his  nose  at  the  moon.  His  throat 
was  afflicted  with  rigid  spasms,  his  mouth  opened, 
and  in  a  heart-broken  cry  bubbled  up  his  loneliness 
and  fear,  his  grief  for  Kiche,  all  his  past  sorrows  and 
miseries  as  well  as  his  apprehension  of  sufferings 
and  dangers  to  come.  It  was  the  long  wolf-howl, 
full-throated  and  mournful,  the  first  howl  he  had 
ever  uttered. 

The  coming  of  daylight  dispelled  his  fears,  but  in 
creased  his  loneliness.  The  naked  earth,  which  so 
shortly  before  had  been  so  populous,  thrust  his  lone 
liness  more  forcibly  upon  him.  It  did  not  take  him 
long  to  make  up  his  mindr  He  plunged  into  the  for 
est  and  followed  the  river  bank  down  the  stream. 
All  day  he  ran.  He  did  not  rest.  He  seemed  made 
to  run  on  forever.  His  iron-like  body  ignored 
fatigue.  And  even  after  fatigue  came,  his  heritage 


154  WHITE  , 

of  endurance  braced  him  to  endless  endeavor  and 
enabled  him  to  drive  his  complaining  body  onward. 

Where  the  river  swung  in  against  precipitous 
bluffs,  he  climbed  the  high  mountains  behind.  Kiv- 
ers  and  streams  that  entered  the  main  river  he  forded 
or  swam.  Often  he  took  to  the  rim-ice  that  was  be 
ginning  to  form,  and  more  than  once  he  crashed 
through  and  struggled  for  life  in  the  icy  current. 
Always  he  was  on  the  lookout  for  the  trail  of  the  gods 
where  it  might  leave  the  river  and  proceed  inland. 

White  Fang  was  intelligent  beyond  the  average  of 
his  kind ;  yet  his  mental  vision  was  not  wide  enough 
to  embrace  the  other  bank  of  the  Mackenzie.  What 
if  the  trail  of  the  gods  led  out  on  that  side  ?  It  never 
entered  his  head.  Later  on,  when  he  had  travelled 
more  and  grown  older  and  \viser  and  come  to  know 
more  of  trails  and  rivers,  it  might  be  that  he  could 
grasp  and  apprehend  such  a  possibility.  But  that 
mental  power  was  yet  in  the  future.  Just  now  he 
ran  blindly,  his  own  bank  of  the  Mackenzie  alone 
entering  into  his  calculations. 

All  night  he  ran,  blundering  in  the  darkness  into 
mishaps  and  obstacles  that  delayed  but  did  not 
daunt.  By  the  middle  of  the  second  day  he  had  been 
running  continuously- for  thirty  hours,  and  the  iron 
of  his  flesh  was  giving  out  It  was  the  endurance  of 
his  mind  that  kept  him  going.  He  had  not  eaten  in 
forty  hours,  and  he  was  weak  with  hunger.  The  re- 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  GODS  155 

peated  drenchings  in  the  icy  water  had  likewise  had 
their  effect  on  him.  His  handsome  coat  was  drag 
gled.  The  broad  pads  of  his  feet  were  bruised  and 
bleeding.  He  had  begun  to  limp  and  this  limp  in 
creased  with  the  hours.  To  make  it  worse,  the  light 
of  the  sky  was  obscured  and  snow  began  to  fall — a 
raw,  moist,  melting,  clinging  snow,  slippery  under 
foot,  that  hid  him  from  the  landscape  he  traversed, 
and  that  covered  over  the  inequalities  of  the  ground 
so  that  the  way  of  his  feet  was  more  difficult  and 
painful. 

Gray  Beaver  had  intended  camping  that  night  on 
the  far  bank  of  the  Mackenzie,  for  it  was  in  that  di 
rection  that  the  hunting  lay.  But  on  the  near  bank, 
shortly  before  dark,  a  moose,  coming  down  to  drink, 
had  been  espied  by  Kloo-kooch,  who  was  Gray 
Beaver's  squaw.  Now,  had  not  the  moose  come 
down  to  drink,  had  not  Mit-sah  been  steering  out  of 
the  course  because  of  the  snow,  had  not  Kloo-kooch 
sighted  the  moose,  and  had  not  Gray  Beaver  killed 
it  with  a  lucky  shot  from  his  rifle,  all  subsequent 
things  would  have  happened  differently.  Gray  Bea 
ver  would  not  have  camped  on  the  near  side  of  the 
Mackenzie,  and  White  Fang  would  have  passed  by 
and  gone  on,  either  to  die  or  to  find  his  way  to  his 
wild  brothers  and  become  one  of  them, — a  wolf  to 
the  end  of  his  days. 

Night   had   fallen.     The   snow  was   flying  more 


156  WHITE  FANG 

thickly,  and  White  Fang,  whimpering  softly  to  him 
self  as  he  stumbled  and  limped  along,  came  upon  a 
fresh  trail  in  the  snow.  So  fresh  was  it  that  he 
know  it  immediately  for  what  it  was.  Whining  with 
eagerness,  he  followed  back  from  the  river  bank  and 
in  among  the  trees.  The  camp-sounds  came  to  his 
ears.  He  saw  the  blaze  of  the  fire,  Kloo-kooch  cook 
ing,  and  Gray  Beaver  squatting  on  his  hams  and 
mumbling  a  chunk  of  raw  tallow.  There  was  fresh 
meat  in  camp ! 

White  Fang  expected  a  beating.  He  crouched  and 
bristled  a  little  at  the  thought  of  it.  Then  he  went 
forward  again.  He  feared  and  disliked  the  beating 
he  knew  to  be  waiting  for  him.  But  he  knew,  fur 
ther,  that  the  comfort  of  the  fire  would  be  his,  the 
protection  of  the  gods,  the  companionship  of  the 
dogs — the^  last,  a  companionship  of  enmity,  but  none 
the  less  a  companionship  and  satisfying  to  his  gre 
garious  needs. 

He  came  cringing  and  crawling  into  the  firelight. 
Gray  Beaver  saw  him  and  stopped  munching  his 
tallow.  White  Fang  crawled  slowly,  cringing  and 
grovelling  in  the  abjectness  of  his  abasement  and 
submission.  He  crawled  straight  toward  Gray  Bea 
ver,  every  inch  of  his- progress  becoming  slower  and 
more  painful.  At  last  he  lay  at  the  master's  feet, 
into  whose  possession  he  now  surrendered  himself, 
voluntarily,  body  and  soul.  Of  his  own  choice  he 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  UOD^  157 


came  in  to  sit  by  man's  fire  and  to  be  ruled  by  him. 
White  Fang  trembled,  waiting  for  the  punishment  to 
fall  upon  him.  There  was  a  movement  of  the  hand 
above  him.  He  cringed  involuntarily  under  the  ex 
pected  blow.  It  did  not  fall.  He  stole  a  glance  up 
ward.  Gray  Beaver  was  breaking  the  lump  of  tallow 
in  half  !  Gray  Beaver  was  offering  him  one  piece  of 
the  tallow  !  Very  gently  and  somewhat  suspiciously, 
he  first  smelled  the  tallow  and  then  proceeded  to  eat 
it.  Gray  Beaver  ordered  meat  to  be  brought  to  him, 
and  guarded  him  from  the  other  dogs  while  he  ate. 
After  that,  grateful  and  content,  White  Fang  lay  at 
Gray  Beaver  's  feet,  gazing  at  the  fire  that  warmed 
him,  blinking  and  dozing,  secure  in  the  knowledge 
that  the  morrow  would  find  him,  not  wandering  for 
lorn  through  bleak  forest-stretches,  but  in  the  camp 
of  the  man-animals,  with  the  gods  to  whom  he 
had  given  himself  and  upon  whom  he  was  now 
dependent. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    COVENANT 

WHEN  December  was  well  along,  Gray  Beaver 
went  on  a  journey  up  the  Mackenzie.  Mit-sah  and 
Kloo-kooch  went  with  him.  One  sled  he  drove  him 
self,  drawn  by  dogs  he  had  traded  for  or  borrowed. 
A  second  and  smaller  sled  was  driven  by  Mit-sah,  and 
to  this  was  harnessed  a  team  of  puppies.  It  was 
more  of  a  toy  affair  than  anything  else,  yet  it  was 
the  delight  of  Mit-sah,  who  felt  that  he  was  begin 
ning  to  do  a  man's  work  in  the  world.  Also,  he  was 
learning  to  drive  dogs  and  to  train  dogs;  while  the 
puppies  themselves  were  being  broken  in  to  the  har 
ness.  Furthermore,  the  sled  was  of  some  service, 
for  it  carried  nearly  two  hundred  pounds  of  outfit 
and  food. 

White  Fang  had  seen  the  camp-dogs  toiling  in  the 
harness,  so  that  he  did  not  resent  overmuch  the  first 
placing  of  the  harness  upon  himself.  About  his  neck 
was  put  a  moss-stuffed  collar,  which  was  connected 
by  two  pulling-traces  'to  a  strap  that  passed  around 
his  chest  and  over  his  back.  It  was  to  this  that  was 
fastened  the  long  rope  by  which  he  pulled  at  the  sled. 

There   were    seven   puppies    in   the   team.     The 

158 


THE  COVENANT  159 

others  had  been  born  earlier  in  the  year  and  were 
nine  and  ten  months  old,  while  White  Fang  was  only 
eight  months  old.  Each  dog  was  fastened  to  the  sled 
by  a  single  rope.  No  two  ropes  were  of  the  same 
length,  while  the  difference  in  length  between  any 
two  ropes  was  at  least  that  of  a  dog's  body. 
Every  rope  was  brought  to  a  ring  at  the  front  end 
of  the  sled.  The  sled  itself  was  without  runners, 
being  a  birch-bark  toboggan,  with  upturned  forward 
end  to  keep  it  from  ploughing  under  the  snow.  This 
construction  enabled  the  weight  of  the  sled  and  load 
to  be  distributed  over  the  largest  snow-surface ;  for 
the  snow  was  crystal-powder  and  very  soft.  Observ 
ing  the  same  principle  of  widest  distribution  of 
weight,  the  dogs  at  the  ends  of  their  ropes  radiated 
fan-fashion  from  the  nose  of  the  sled,  so  that  no  dog 
trod  in  another's  footsteps. 

There  was,  furthermore,  another  virtue  in  the  fan- 
formation.  The  ropes  of  varying  length  prevented 
the  dogs'  attacking  from  the  rear  those  that  ran  in 
front  of  them.  For  a  dog  to  attack  another,  it  would 
have  to  turn  upon  one  at  a  shorter  rope.  In  which 
case  it  would  find  itself  face  to  face  with  the  dog 
attacked,  and  also  it  would  find  itself  facing  the  whip 
of  the  driver.  But  the  most  peculiar  virtue  of  all 
lay  in  the  fact  that  the  dog  that  strove  to  attack  one 
in  front  of  him  must  pull  the  sled  faster,  and  that  the 
faster  the  sled  travelled,  the  faster  could  the  dog 


160  WHITE  FANG 

attacked  run  away.  Thus  the  dog  behind  could 
never  catch  up  with  the  one  in  front.  The  faster  he 
ran,  the  faster  ran  the  one  he  was  after,  and  the 
faster  ran  all  the  dogs.  Incidentally,  the  sled  went 
faster,  and  thus,  by  cunning  indiscretion,  did  man 
increase  his  mastery  over  the  beasts. 

Mit-sah  resembled  his  father,  much  of  whose  gray 
wisdom  he  possessed.  In  the  past  he  had  observed 
Lip-lip 's  persecution  of  White  Fang ;  but  at  that  time 
Lip-lip  was  another  man's  dog,  and  Mit-sah  had 
never  dared  more  than  to  shy  an  occasional  stone  at 
him.  But  now  Lip-lip  was  his  dog,  and  he  proceeded 
to  wreak  his  vengeance  upon  him  by  putting  him  at 
the  end  of  the  longest  rope.  This  made  Lip-lip  the 
leader,  and  was  apparently  an  honor;  but  in  reality 
it  took  away  from  him  all  honor,  and  instead  of  being 
bully  and  master  of  the  pack,  he  now  found  himself 
hated  and  persecuted  by  the  pack. 

Because  he  ran  at  the  end  of  the  longest  rope,  the 
clogs  had  always  the  view  of  him  running  away 
before  them.  All  that  they  saw  of  him  was  his 
bushy  tail  and  fleeing  hind  legs — a  view  far  less 
ferocious  and  intimidating  than  his  bristling  mane 
and  gleaming  fangs.  Also,  dogs  being  so  consti 
tuted  in  their  mental  ways,  the  sight  of  him  running 
away  gave  desire  to  run  after  him  and  a  feeling  that 
he  ran  away  from  them. 

The  moment  the  sled  started,  the  team  took  after 


THE  COVENANT  161 

Lip-lip  in  a  chase  that  extended  throughout  the  day. 
At  first  he  had  been  prone  to  turn  upon  his  pursuers, 
jealous  of  his  dignity  and  wrathful ;  but  at  such  times 
Mit-sah  would  throw  the  stinging  lash  of  the  thirty- 
foot  cariboo-gut  whip  into  his  face  and  compel  him 
to  turn  tail  and  run  on.  Lip-lip  might  face  the  pack, 
but  he  could  not  face  that  whip,  and  all  that  was  left 
him  to  do  was  to  keep  his  long  rope  taut  and  his 
flanks  ahead  of  the  teeth  of  his  mates. 

But  a  still  greater  cunning  lurked  in  the  recesses 
of  the  Indian  mind.  To  give  point  to  unending  pur 
suit  of  the  leader,  Mit-sah  favored  him  over  the  other 
dogs.  These  favors  aroused  in  them  jealousy  and 
hatred.  In  their  presence  Mit-sah  would  give  him 
meat  and  would  give  it  to  him  only.  This  was  mad 
dening  to  them.  They  would  rage  around  just  out 
side  the  throwing  distance  of  the  whip,  while  Lip-lip 
devoured  the  meat  and  Mit-sah  protected  him.  And 
when  there  was  no  meat  to  give,  Mit-sah  would  keep 
the  team  at  a  distance  and  make  believe  to  give  meat 
to  Lip-lip. 

White  Fang  took  kindly  to  the  work.  He  had 
travelled  a  greater  distance  than  the  other  dogs  in 
the  yielding  of  himself  to  the  rule  of  the  gods,  and  he 
had  learned  more  thoroughly  the  futility  of  opposing 
their  will.  In  addition,  the  persecution  he  had  suf 
fered  from  the  pack  had  made  the  pack  less  to  him 
in  the  scheme  of  things,  and  man  more.  He  had  not 


162  WHITE  FANG 

learned  to  be  dependent  on  his  kind  for  companion 
ship.  Besides,  Kiche  was  well-nigh  forgotten;  and 
the  chief  outlet  of  expression  that  remained  to  him 
was  in  the  allegiance  he  tendered  the  gods  he  had 
accepted  as  masters.  So  he  worked  hard,  learned 
discipline,  and  was  obedient.  Faithfulness  and  will 
ingness  characterized  his  toil.  These  are  essential 
traits  of  the  wolf  and  the  wild-dog  when  they  have 
become  domesticated,  and  these  traits  White  Fang 
possessed  in  unusual  measure. 

A  companionship  did  exist  between  White  Fang 
and  the  other  dogs,  but  it  was  one  of  warfare  and 
enmity.  He  had  never  learned  to  play  with  them. 
He  knew  only  how  to  fight,  and  fight  with  them  he 
did,  returning  to  them  a  hundred-fold  the  snaps  and 
slashes  they  had  given  him  in  the  days  when  Lip-lip 
was  leader  of  the  pack.  But  Lip-lip  was  no  longer 
leader — except  when  he  fled  away  before  his  mates 
at  the  end  of  his  rope,  the  sled  bounding  along  be 
hind.  In  camp  he  kept  close  to  Mit-sah  or  Gray 
Beaver  or  Kloo-kooch.  He  did  not  dare  venture 
away  from  the  gods,  for  now  the  fangs  of  all  dogs 
were  against  him,  and  he  tasted  to  the  dregs  the  per 
secution  that  had  been  White  Fang's. 

With  the  overthrow'  of  Lip-lip,  White  Fang  could 
have  become  leader  of  the  pack.  But  he  was  too 
morose  and  solitary  for  that.  He  merely  thrashed 
his  team-mates.  Otherwise  he  ignored  them.  They 


THE  COVKJSA^T  163 

got  out  of  his  way  when  he  came  along;  nor  aid  the 
boldest  of  them  ever  dare  to  rob  him  of  his  meat. 
On  the  contrary,  they  devoured  their  own  meat  hur 
riedly,  for  fear  that  he  would  take  it  away  from 
them.  White  Fang  knew  the  law  well:  to  oppress 
the  weak  and  obey  the  strong.  He  ate  his  share  of 
meat  as  rapidly  as  he  could.  And  then  woe  the  dog 
that  had  not  yet  finished!  A  snarl  and  a  flash  of 
fangs,  and  that  dog  would  wail  his  indignation  to  the 
uncomforting  stars  while  White  Fang  finished  his 
portion  for  him. 

Every  little  while,  however,  one  dog  or  another 
would  flame  up  in  revolt  and  be  promptly  subdued. 
Thus  White  Fang  was  kept  in  training.  He  was 
jealous  of  the  isolation  in  which  he  kept  himself 
in  the  midst  of  the  pack,  and  he  fought  often  to  main 
tain  it.  But  such  fights  were  of  brief  duration.  He 
was  too  quick  for  the  others.  They  were  slashed 
open  and  bleeding  before  they  knew  what  had  hap 
pened,  were  whipped  almost  before  they  had  begun 
to  fight. 

As  rigid  as  the  sled-discipline  of  the  gods,  was  the 
discipline  maintained  by  White  Fang  amongst  his 
fellows.  He  never  allowed  them  any  latitude.  He 
compelled  them  to  an  unremitting  respect  for  him. 
They  might  do  as  they  pleased  amongst  themselves. 
That  was  no  concern  of  his.  But  it  was  his  concern 
that  they  leave  him  alone  in  his  isolation,  get  out  of 


164  WHITE  FAXG 

his  way  when  he  elected  to  walk  among  them,  and 
at  all  times  acknowledge  his  mastery  over  them.  A 
hint  of  stiff -leggedness  on  their  part,  a  lifted  lip  or  a 
briste  of  hair,  and  he  would  be  upon  them,  merciless 
and  cruel,  swiftly  convincing  them  of  the  error  of 
their  way. 

He  was  a  monstrous  tyrant.  His  mastery  was 
rigid  as  steel.  He  oppressed  the  weak  with  a  ven 
geance.  Not  for  nothing  had  he  been  exposed  to  the 
pitiless  struggle  for  life  in  the  days  of  his  cubhood, 
when  his  mother  and  he,  alone  and  unaided,  held 
their  own  and  survived  in  the  ferocious  environment 
of  the  Wild.  And  not  for  nothing  had  he  learned  to 
walk  softly  when  superior  strength  went  by.  He  op 
pressed  the  weak,  but  he  respected  the  strong.  And 
in  the  course  of  the  long  journey  with  Gray  Beaver 
he  walked  softly  indeed  amongst  the  full-grown  dogs 
in  the  camps  of  the  strange  man-animals  they  en 
countered. 

The  months  passed  by.  Still  continued  the  jour 
ney  of  Gray  Beaver.  White  Fang's  strength  was 
developed  by  the  long  hours  on  the  trail  and  the 
steady  toil  at  the  sled ;  and  it  would  have  seemed  that 
his  mental  development  was  well-nigh  complete.  He 
had  come  to  know  quite  thoroughly  the  world  in 
which  he  lived.  His  outlook  was  bleak  and  material 
istic.  The  world  as  he  saw  it  was  a  fierce  and  brutal 
world,  a  world  without  warmth,  a  world  in  which 


THE  COVENANT  165 

caresses  and  affection  and  the  bright  sweetnesses  of 
the  spirit  did  not  exist. 

He  had  no  affection  for  Gray  Beaver.  True,  he 
was  a  god,  but  a  most  savage  god.  White  Fang  was 
glad  to  acknowledge  his  lordship,  but  it  was  a  lord 
ship  based  upon  superior  intelligence  and  brute 
strength.  There  was  something  in  the  fibre  of 
White  Fang's  being  that  made  this  lordship  a  thing 
to  be  desired,  else  he  would  not  have  come  back  from 
the  Wild  when  he  did  to  tender  his  allegiance. 
There  were  deeps  in  his  nature  which  had  never  been 
sounded.  A  kind  word,  a  caressing  touch  of  the 
hand,  on  the  part  of  Gray  Beaver,  might  have 
sounded  these  deeps ;  but  Gray  Beaver  did  not  caress 
nor  speak  kind  words.  It  was  not  his  way.  His 
primacy  was  savage,  and  savagely  he  ruled,  admin 
istering  justice  with  a  club,  punishing  transgression 
with  the  pain  of  a  blow,  and  rewarding  merit,  not  by 
kindness,  but  by  withholding  a  blow. 

So  White  Fang  knew  nothing  of  the  heaven  a 
man's  hand  might  contain  for  him.  Besides,  he  did 
not  like  the  hands  of  the  man-animals.  He  was  sus 
picious*  of  them.  It  was  true  that  they  sometimes 
gave  meat,  but  more  often  they  gave  hurt.  Hands 
were  things  to  keep  away  from.  They  hurled  stones, 
wielded  sticks  and  clubs  and  whips,  administered 
slaps  and  clouts,  and,  when  they  touched  him,  were 
cunning  to  hurt  with  pinch  and  twist  and  wrench. 


166  WHITE  FANG 

In  strange  villages  he  had  encountered  the  hands 
of  the  children  and  learned  that  they  were  cruel  to 
hurt.  Also,  he  had  once  nearly  had  an  eye  poked 
out  by  a  toddling  papoose.  From  these  experiences 
he  became  suspicious  of  all  children.  He  could  not 
tolerate  them.  When  they  came  near  with  their 
ominous  hands,  he  got  up. 

It  was  in  a  village  at  Great  Slave  Lake,  that,  in 
the  course  of  resenting  the  evil  of  the  hands  of  the 
man-animals,  he  came  to  modify  the  law  that  he  had 
learned  from  Gray  Beaver;  namely,  that  the  unpar 
donable  crime  was  to  bite  one  of  the  gods.  In  this 
village,  after  the  custom  of  all  dogs  in  all  villages, 
White  Fang  went  foraging  for  food.  A  boy  was 
chopping  frozen  moose-meat  with  an  axe,  and  the 
chips  were  flying  in  the  snow.  White  Fang,  sliding 
by  in  quest  of  meat,  stopped  and  began  to  eat  the 
chips.  He  observed  the  boy  lay  down  the  axe  and 
take  up  a  stout  club.  White  Fang  sprang  clear,  just 
in  time  to  escape  the  descending  blow.  The  boy 
pursued  him,  and  he,  a  stranger  in  the  village,  fled 
between  two  tepees,  to  find  himself  cornered  against 
a  high  earth  bank. 

There  was  no  escape  for  White  Fang.  The  only 
way  out  was  between  the  two  tepees,  and  this  the  boy 
guarded.  Holding  the  club  prepared  to  strike,  he 
drew  in  on  his  cornered  quarry.  White  Fang  was 
furious.  He  faced  the  boy,  bristling  and  snarling, 


THE  COVENANT  167 

his  sense  of  justice  outraged.  He  knew  the  law  of 
forage.  All  the  wastage  of  meat,  such  as  the  frozen 
chips,  belonged  to  the  dog  that  found  it.  He  had 
done  no  wrong,  broken  no  law,  yet  here  was  this 
boy  preparing  to  give  him  a  beating.  White  Fang 
scarcely  knew  what  happened.  He  did  it  in  a  surge 
of  rage.  And  he  did  it  so  quickly  that  the  boy  did 
not  know,  either.  All  the  boy  knew  was  that  he  had 
in  some  unaccountable  way  been  overturned  into  the 
snow,  and  that  his  club-hand  had  been  ripped  wide 
open  by  White  Fang's  teeth. 

But  White  Fang  knew  that  he  had  broken  the  law 
of  the  gods.  He  had  driven  his  teeth  into  the  sacred 
flesh  of  one  of  them,  and  could  expect  nothing  but 
a  most  terrible  punishment.  He  fled  away  to  Gray 
Beaver,  behind  whose  protecting  legs  he  crouched 
when  the  bitten  boy  and  the  boy's  family  came,  de 
manding  vengeance.  But  they  went  away  with  ven 
geance  unsatisfied.  Gray  Beaver  defended  White 
Fang.  So  did  Mit-sah  and  Kloo-kooch.  White 
Fang,  listening  to  the  wordy  war  and  watching  the 
angry  gestures,  knew  that  his  act  was  justified.  And 
so  it  came  that  he  learned  there  were  gods  and  gods. 
There  were  his  gods,  and  there  were  other  gods,  and 
between  them  there  was  a  difference^.  Justice  or  in 
justice,  it  was  all  the  same,  he  must  take  all  things 
from  the  hands  of  his  own  gods.  But  he  was  not 
compelled  to  take  injustice  from  the  other  gods.  It 


168  WHITE  FANG 

was  his  privilege  to  resent  it  with  his  teeth.  And 
this  also  was  a  law  of  the  gods. 

Before  the  day  was  out,  White  Fang  was  to  learn 
more  about  this  law.  Mit-sah,  alone,  gathering  fire 
wood  in  the  forest,  encountered  the  boy  that  had 
been  bitten.  With  him  were  other  boys.  Hot  words 
passed.  Then  all  the  boys  attacked  Mit-sah.  It  was 
going  hard  with  him.  Blows  were  raining  upon  him 
from  all  sides.  White  Fang  looked  on  at  first.  This 
was  an  affair  of  the  gods,  and  no  concern  of  his. 
Then  he  realized  that  this  was  Mit-sah,  one  of  his 
own  particular  gods,  who  was  being  maltreated.  It 
was  no  reasoned  impulse  that  made  White  Fang  do 
what  he  then  did.  A  mad  rush  of  anger  sent  him 
leaping  in  amongst  the  combatants.  Five  minutes 
later  the  landscape  was  covered  with  fleeing  boys, 
many  of  whom  dripped  blood  upon  the  snow  in  token 
that  White  Fang's  teeth  had  not  been  idle.  When 
Mit-sah  told  his  story  in  camp,  Gray  Beaver  ordered 
meat  to  be  given  to  White  Fang.  He  ordered  much 
meat  to  be  given,  and  White  Fang,  gorged  and  sleepy 
by  the  fire,  knew  that  the  law  had  received  its  veri 
fication. 

It  was  in  line  with  these  experiences  that  White 
Fang  came  to  learn  the  law  of  property  and  the 
duty  of  the  defence  of  property.  From  the  protec 
tion  of  his  god's  body  to  the  protection  of  his  god's 
possessions  was  a  step,  and  this  step  he  made. 


THE  COVENANT  169 

What  was  his  god's  was  to  be  defended  against  all 
the  world — even  to  the  extent  of  biting  other  gods. 
Not  only  was  such  an  act  sacrilegious  in  its  nature, 
but  it  was  fraught  with  peril.  The  gods  were  all- 
powerful,  and  a  dog  was  no  match  against  them ;  yet 
"White  Fang  learned  to  face  them,  fiercely  belligerent 
and  unafraid.  Duty  rose  above  fear,  and  thieving 
gods  learned  to  leave  Gray  Beaver's  property  alone. 

One  thing,  in  this  connection,  White  Fang  quickly 
learned,  and  that  was  that  a  thieving  god  was  usually 
a  cowardly  god  and  prone  to  run  away  at  the  sound 
ing  of  the  alarm.  Also,  he  learned  that  but  brief 
time  elapsed  between  his  sounding  of  the  alarm  and 
Gray  Beaver's  coming  to  his  aid.  He  came  to  know 
that  it  was  not  fear  of  him  that  drove  the  thief  away, 
but  fear  of  Gray  Beaver.  White  Fang  did  not  give 
the  alarm  by  barking.  He  never  barked.  His 
method  was  to  drive  straight  at  the  intruder,  and  to 
sink  his  teeth  in  if  he  could.  Because  he  was  morose 
and  solitary,  having  nothing  to  do  with  the  other 
dogs,  he  was  unusually  fitted  to  guard  his  master's 
property ;  and  in  this  he  was  encouraged  and  trained 
by  Gray  Beaver.  One  result  of  this  was  to  make 
White  Fang  more  ferocious  and  indomitable,  and 
more  solitary. 

The  months  went  by,  binding  stronger  and 
stronger  the  covenant  between  dog  and  man.  This 
was  the  ancient  covenant  that  the  first  wolf  that  came 


170  WHITE  FANG 

in  from  the  Wild  entered  into  with  man.  And,  like 
all  succeeding  wolves  and  wild  dogs  that  had  done 
likewise,  White  Fang  worked  the  covenant  out  for 
himself.  The  terms  were  simple.  For  the  posses 
sion  of  a  flesh-and-blood  god,  he  exchanged  his  own 
liberty.  Food  and  fire,  protection  and  compan 
ionship,  were  some  of  the  things  he  received  from  the 
god.  In  return  he  guarded  the  god's  property,  de 
fended  his  body,  worked  for  him,  and  obeyed  him. 

The  possession  of  a  god  implies  service.  White 
Fang's  was  a  service  of  duty  and  awe,  but  not  of 
love.  He  did  not  know  what  love  was.  He  had  no 
experience  of  love.  Kiche  was  a  remote  memory. 
Besides,  not  only  had  he  abandoned  the  Wild  and 
his  kind  when  he  gave  himself  up  to  man,  but  the 
terms  of  the  covenant  were  such  that  if  he  ever  met 
Kiche  again  he  would  not  desert  his  god  to  go  with 
her.  His  allegiance  to  man  seemed  somehow  a  law 
of  his  being  greater  than  the  love  of  liberty,  of  kind 
and  kin. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   FAMINE 

THE  spring  of  the  year  was  at  hand  when  Gray 
Beaver  finished  his  long  journey.  It  was  April,  and 
White  Fang  was  a  year  old  when  he  pulled  into  the 
home  village  and  was  loosed  from  the  harness  by 
Mit-sah.  Though  a  long  way  from  his  full  growth, 
White  Fang,  next  to  Lip-lip,  was  the  largest  yearling 
in  the  village.  Both  from  his  father,  the  wolf,  and 
from  Kiche,  he  had  inherited  stature  and  strength, 
and  already  he  was  measuring  up  alongside  the  full- 
grown  dogs.  But  he  had  not  yet  grown  compact. 
His  body  was  slender  and  rangy,  and  his  strength 
more  stringy  than  massive.  His  coat  was  the  true 
wolf -gray,  and  to  all  appearances  he  was  true  wolf 
himself.  The  quarter-strain  of  dog  he  had  inherited 
from  Kiche  had  left  no  mark  on  him  physically, 
though  it  played  its  part  in  his  mental  make-up. 

He  wandered  through  the  village,  recognizing  with 
staicl  satisfaction  the  various  gods  he  had  known  be 
fore  the  long  journey.  Then  there  were  the  dogs, 
puppies  growing  up  like  himself,  and  grown  dogs 
that  did  not  look  so  large  and  formidable  as  the 
memory-pictures  he  retained  of  them.  Also,  he 


172  WHITE  FANG 

stood  less  in  fear  of  them  than  formerly,  stalking 
among  them  with  a  certain  careless  ease  that  was  as 
new  to  him  as  it  was  enjoyable. 

There  was  Baseek,  a  grizzled  old  fellow  that  in 
his  younger  days  had  but  to  uncover  his  fangs  to 
send  White  Fang  cringing  and  crouching  to  the 
right-about.  From  him  White  Fang  had  learned 
much  of  his  own  insignificance;  and  from  him  he 
was  now  to  learn  much  of  the  change  and  develop 
ment  that  had  taken  place  in  himself.  While  Baseek 
had  been  growing  weaker  with  age,  White  Fang  had 
been  growing  stronger  with  youth. 

It  was  at  the  cutting-up  of  a  moose,  fresh-killed, 
that  White  Fang  learned  of  the  changed  relations  in 
which  he  stood  to  the  dog-world.  He  had  got  for 
himself  a  hoof  and  part  of  the  shin-bone,  to  which 
quite  a  bit  of  meat  was  attached.  Withdrawn  from 
the  immediate  scramble  of  the  other  dogs, — in  fact, 
out  of  sight  behind  a  thicket, — he  was  devouring  his 
prize,  when  Baseek  rushed  in  upon  him.  Before  he 
knew  what  he  was  doing,  he  had  slashed  the  intruder 
twice  and  sprung  clear.  Baseek  was  surprised  by 
the  other's  temerity  and  swiftness  of  attack.  He 
stood,  gazing  stupidly  across  at  White  Fang,  the 
raw,  red  shin-bone  between  them. 

Baseek  was  old,  and  already  he  had  come  to  know 
the  increasing  valor  of  the  dogs  it  had  been  his  wont 
to  bully.  Bitter  experiences  these,  which,  perforce, 


THE  FAMINE  173 

he  swallowed,  calling  upon  all  his  wisdom  to  cope 
with  them.  In  the  old  days,  he  would  have  sprung 
upon  White  Fang  in  a  fury  of  righteous  wrath. 
But  now  his  waning  powers  would  not  permit  such  a 
course.  He  bristled  fiercely  and  looked  ominously 
across  the  shin-bone  at  White  Fang.  And  White 
Fang,  resurrecting  quite  a  deal  of  the  old  awe, 
seemed  to  wilt  and  to  shrink  in  upon  himself  and 
grow  small,  as  he  cast  about  in  his  mind  for  a  way 
to  beat  a  retreat  not  too  inglorious. 

And  right  here  Baseek  erred.  Had  he  contented 
himself  with  looking  fierce  and  ominous,  all  would 
have  been  well.  White  Fang,  on  the  verge  of  re 
treat,  would  have  retreated,  leaving  the  meat  to  him. 
But  Baseek  did  not  wait.  He  considered  the  victory 
already  his  and  stepped  forward  to  the  meat.  As 
he  bent  his  head  carelessly  to  smell  it,  White  Fang 
bristled  slightly.  Even  then  it  was  not  too  late  for 
Baseek  to  retrieve  the  situation.  Had  he  merely 
stood  over  the  meat,  head  up  and  glowering,  White 
Fang  would  ultimately  have  slunk  away.  But  the 
fresh  meat  was  strong  in  Baseek 's  nostrils,  and 
greed  urged  him  to  take  a  bite  of  it. 

This  was  too  much  for  White  Fang.  Fresh  upon 
his  months  of  mastery  over  his  own  team-mates,  it 
was  beyond  his  self-control  to  stand  idly  by  while 
another  devoured  the  meat  that  belonged  to  him. 
He  struck,  after  his  custom,  without  warning.  With 


174  WHITE  FANG 

the  first  slash,  Baseek's  right  ear  was  ripped  into 
ribbons.  He  was  astounded  at  the  suddenness  of 
it.  But  more  things,  and  most  grievous  ones,  were 
happening  with  equal  suddenness.  He  was  knocked 
off  his  feet.  His  throat  was  bitten.  While  he  was 
struggling  to  his  feet  the  young  dog  sank  teeth  twice 
into  his  shoulder.  The  swiftness  of  it  was  bewilder 
ing.  He  made  a  futile  rush  at  White  Fang,  clipping 
the  empty  air  with  an  outraged  snap.  The  next 
moment  his  nose  was  laid  open  and  he  was  stag 
gering  backward  away  from  the  meat. 

The  situation  was  now  reversed.  White  Fang 
stood  over  the  shin-bone,  bristling  and  menacing, 
while  Baseek  stood  a  little  way  off,  preparing  to  re 
treat.  He  dared  not  risk  a  fight  with  this  young 
lightning-flash,  and  again  he  knew,  and  more  bitterly, 
the  enfeeblement  of  oncoming  age.  His  attempt  to 
maintain  his  dignity  was  heroic.  Calmly  turning 
his  back  upon  young  dog  and  shin-bone,  as  though 
both  were  beneath  his  notice  and  unworthy  of  con 
sideration,  he  stalked  grandly  away.  Nor,  until 
well  out  of  sight,  did  he  stop  to  lick  his  bleeding 
wounds. 

The  effect  on  White  Fang  was  to  give  him  a 
greater  faith  in  himself,  and  a  greater  pride.  He 
walked  less  softly  among  the  grown  dogs;  his  at 
titude  toward  them  was  less  compromising.  Not 
that  he  went  out  of  his  way  looking  for  trouble. 


THE  FAM1M-:  175 

Far  from  it.    But  upon  his  way  he  demanded  con 
sideration.    He  stood  upon  his  right  to  go  his  way 
unmolested  and  to  give  trail  to  no  dog.    He  had  to 
be  taken  into  account,  that  was  all.     He  was  no 
longer  t-o  be  disregarded  and  ignored,  as  was  the  lot 
of  puppies  and  as  continued  to  be  the  lot  of  the 
puppies  that  were  his  team-mates.     They  got  out  of 
the  way,  gave  trail  to  the  grown  dogs,  and  gave  up 
meat  to  them  under  compulsion.    But  White  Fang, 
uncompanionable,  solitary,  morose,  scarcely  looking 
to  right  or  left,  redoubtable,  forbidding  of  aspect,  re 
mote  and  alien,  was  accepted  as  an  equal  by  his 
puzzled  elders.     They  quickly  learned  to  leave  him 
alone,  neither  venturing  hostile  acts  nor  making 
overtures  of  friendliness.     If  they  left  him  alone,  he 
left  them  alone — a  state  of  affairs  that  they  found, 
after  a  few  encounters,  to  be  preeminently  desirable. 
In  midsummer  White  Fang  had  an  experience. 
Trotting  along  in  his  silent  way  to  investigate  a  new 
tepee  which  had  been  erected  on  the  edge  of  the 
village  while  he  was  away  with  the  hunters  after 
moose,  he  came  full  upon  Kiche.    He  paused  and 
looked  at  her.    He  remembered  her  vaguely,  but  he 
remembered  her,  and  that  was  more  than  could  be 
said  for  her.     She  lifted  her  lip  at  him  in  the  old 
snarl  of  menace,  and  his  memory  became  clear.     His 
forgotten  cubhood,  all  that  was  associated  with  that 
familiar  snarl,  rushed  back  to  him.    Before  he  had 


176  WHITE  FANG 

known  the  gods,  she  had  been  to  him  the  centre-pin 
of  the  universe.  The  old  familiar  feelings  of  that 
time  came  back  upon  him,  surged  up  within  him. 
He  bounded  toward  her  joyously,  and  she  met  him 
with  shrewd  fangs  that  laid  his  cheek  open  to  the 
bone.  He  did  not  understand.  He  backed  away, 
bewildered  and  puzzled. 

But  it  was  not  Kiche  's  fault.  A  wolf -mother  was 
not  made  to  remember  her  cubs  of  a  year  or  so  be 
fore.  So  she  did  not  remember  White  Fang.  He 
was  a  strange  animal,  an  intruder ;  and  her  present 
litter  of  puppies  gave  her  the  right  to  resent  such 
intrusion. 

One  of  the  puppies  sprawled  up  to  White  Fang. 
They  were  half-brothers,  only  they  did  not  know  it. 
White  Fang  sniffed  the  puppy  curiously,  whereupon 
Kiche  rushed  upon  him,  gashing  his  face  a  second 
time.  He  backed  farther  away.  All  the  old  memo 
ries  and  associations  died  down  again  and  passed 
into  the  grave  from  which  they  had  been  resurrected. 
He  looked  at  Kiche  licking  her  puppy  and  stopping 
now  and  then  to  snarl  at  him.  She  was  without 
value  to  him.  He  had  learned  to  get  along  without 
her.  Her  meaning  was  forgotten.  There  was  no 
place  for  her  in  his  scheme  of  things,  as  there  was  no 
place  for  him  in  hers. 

He  was  still  standing,  stupid  and  bewildered,  the 
memories  forgotten,  wondering  what  it  was  all  about, 


THE  FAMINE  177 

when  Kiche  attacked  him  a  third  time,  intent  on 
driving  him  away  altogether  from  the  vicinity. 
And  White  Fang  allowed  himself  to  be  driven  away. 
This  was  a  female  of  his  kind,  and  it  was  a  law  of 
his  kind  that  the  males  must  not  fight  the  females. 
He  did  not  know  anything  about  this  law,  for  it  was 
no  generalization  of  the  mind,  not  a  something  ac 
quired  by  experience  in  the  world.  He  knew  it  as 
a  secret  prompting,  as  an  urge  of  instinct — of  the 
same  instinct  that  made  him  howl  at  the  moon  and 
stars  of  nights  and  that  made  him  fear  death  and  the 
unknown. 

The  months  went  by.  White  Fang  grew  stronger, 
heavier,  and  more  compact,  while  his  character  was 
developing  along  the  lines  laid  down  by  his  heredity 
and  his  environment.  His  heredity  was  a  life-stuff 
that  may  be  likened  to  clay.  It  possessed  many 
possibilities,  was  capable  of  being  moulded  into 
many  different  forms.  Environment  served  to 
model  the  clay,  to  give  it  a  particular  form.  Thus, 
had  White  Fang  never  come  in  to  the  fires  of  man, 
the  Wild  would  have  moulded  him  into  a  true  wolf. 
But  the  gods  had  given  him  a  different  environment, 
and  he  was  moulded  into  a  dog  that  was  rather 
wolfish,  but  that  was  a  dog  and  not  a  wolf. 

And  so,  according  to  the  clay  of  his  nature  and  the 
pressure  of  his  surroundings,  his  character  was  be 
ing  moulded  into  a  certain  particular  shape.  There- 


178  WHITE  FANG 

was  no  escaping  it.  He  was  becoming  more  morose, 
more  uncompanionable,  more  solitary,  more  fe 
rocious  ;  while  the  dogs  were  learning  more  and  more 
that  it  was  better  to  be  at  peace  with  him  than  at 
war,  and  Gray  Beaver  was  coming  to  prize  him  more 
greatly  with  the  passage  of  each  day. 

White  Fang,  seeming  to  sum  up  strength  in  all  his 
qualities,  nevertheless  suffered  from  one  besetting 
weakness.  He  could  not  stand  being  laughed  at. 
The  laughter  of  men  was  a  hateful  thing.  They 
might  laugh  among  themselves  about  anything  they 
pleased  except  himself,  and  he  did  not  mind.  But 
the  moment  laughter  was  turned  upon  him  he  would 
fly  into  a  most  terrible  rage.  Grave,  dignified, 
sombre,  a  laugh  made  him  frantic  to  ridiculousness. 
It  so  outraged  him  and  upset  him  lhat  for  hours  he 
would  behave  like  a  demon.  And -woe  to  the  dog 
that  at  such  times  ran  foul  of  him.  He  knew  the 
law  too  well  to  take  it  out  on  Gray  Beaver ;  behind 
Gray  Beaver  were  a  club  and  a  god-head.  But  be 
hind  the  dogs  there  was  nothing  but  space,  and  into 
this  space  they  fled  when  White  Fang  came  on  the 
scene,  made  mad  by  laughter. 

In  the  third  year  of  his  life  there  came  a  .great 
famine  to  the  Mackenzie  Indians.  In  the  summer 
the  fish  failed.  In  the  winter  the  cariboo  forsook 
their  accustomed  track.  Moose  were  scarce,  the  rab 
bits  almost  disappeared,  hunting  and  preying  an- 


THE   FAMLNK  179 

imals  perished.  Denied  their  usual  food-supply, 
weakened  by  hunger,  they  fell  upon  and  devoured 
one  another.  Only  the  strong  survived.  White 
Fang's  gods  were  also  hunting  animals.  The  old 
and  the  weak  of  them  died  of  hunger.  There  was 
wailing  in  the  village,  where  the  women  and  children 
went  without  in  order  that  what  little  they  had  might 
go  into  the  bellies  of  the  lean  and  hollow-eyed  hunt 
ers  who  trod  the  forest  in  the  vain  pursuit  of  meat. 

To  such  extremity  were  the  gods  driven  that  they 
ate  the  soft-tanned  leather  of  their  moccasins  and 
mittens,  while  the  dogs  ate  the  harnesses  off  their 
backs  and  the  very  whip-lashes.  Also,  the  dogs  ate 
one  another,  and  also  the  gods  ate  the  dogs.  The 
weakest  and  the  more  worthless  were  eaten  first. 
The  dogs  that  still  lived,  looked  on  and  understood. 
A  few  of  the  boldest  and  wisest  forsook  the  fires  of 
the  gods,  which  had  now  become  a  shambles,  and 
fled  into  the  forest,  where,  in  the  end,  they  starved  to 
death  or  were  eaten  by  wolves. 

In  this  time  of  misery,  White  Fang,  too,  stole 
away  into  the  woods.  He  was  better  fitted  for  the 
life  than  the  other  dogs,  for  he  had  the  training  of 
his  cubhood  to  guide  him.  Especially  adept  did  he 
become  in  stalking  small  living  things.  He  would  lie 
concealed  for  hours,  following  every  movement  of  a 
cautious  tree-squirrel,  waiting,  with  a  patience  as 
huge  as  the  hunger  he  suffered  from,  until  the  squir- 


180  WHITE  FANG 

rel  ventured  out  upon  the  ground.  Even  then, 
White  Fang  was  not  premature.  He  waited  until 
he  was  sure  of  striking  before  the  squirrel  could  gain 
a  tree-refuge.  Then,  and  not  until  then,  would  he 
flash  from  his  hiding-place,  a  gray  projectile,  in 
credibly  swift,  never  failing  its  mark — the  fleeing 
squirrel  that  fled  not  fast  enough. 

Successful  as  he  was  with  squirrels,  there  was  one 
difficulty  that  prevented  him  from  living  and  grow 
ing  fat  on  them.  There  were  not  enough  squirrels. 
So  he  was  driven  to  hunt  still  smaller  things.  So 
acute  did  his  hunger  become  at  times  that  he  was  not 
above  rooting  out  wood-mice  from  their  burrows  in 
the  gound.  Nor  did  he  scorn  to  do  battle  with  a 
weasel  as  hungry  as  himself  and  many  times  more 
ferocious. 

In  the  worst  pinches  of  the  famine  he  stole  back  to 
the  fires  of  the  gods.  But  he  did  not  go  in  to  the 
fires.  He  lurked  in  the  forest,  avoiding  discovery 
and  robbing  the  snares  at  the  rare  intervals  when 
game  was  caught.  He  even  robbed  Gray  Beaver's 
snare  of  a  rabbit  at  a  time  when  Gray  Beaver  stag 
gered  and  tottered  through  the  forest,  sitting  down 
often  to  rest,  what  of  weakness  and  of  shortness  of 
breath. 

One  day  White  Fang  encountered  a  young  wolf, 
gaunt  and  scrawny,  loose-jointed  with  famine.  Had 
he  not  been  hungry  himself,  White  Fang  might  have 


THE  FAMINE  181 

gone  with  him  and  eventually  found  his  \fcay  into  the 
pack  amongst  his  wild  brethren.  As  it  vas,  he  ran 
the  young  wolf  down  and  killed  and  ate  kim. 

Fortune  seemed  to  favor  him.  Always,  when 
hardest  pressed  for  food,  he  found  something  to  kill. 
Again,  when  he  was  weak,  it  was  his  luck  that  none 
of  the  larger  preying  animals  chanced  upon  him. 
Thus,  he  was  strong  from  the  two  days'  eating  a 
lynx  had  afforded  him,  when  the  hungry  wolf -pack 
ran  full  tilt  upon  him.  It  was  a  long,  cruel  chase, 
but  he  was  better  nourished  than  they,  and  in  the  end 
outran  them.  And  not  only  did  he  outrun  them,  but, 
circling  widely  back  on  his  track,  he  gathered  in  one 
of  his  exhausted  pursuers. 

After  that  he  left  that  part  of  the  country  and 
journeyed  over  to  the  valley  wherein  he  had  been 
born.  Here,  in  the  old  lair,  he  encountered  Kiche. 
Up  to  her  old  tricks,  she,  too,  had  fled  the  inhospi 
table  fires  of  the  gods  and  gone  back  to  her  old 
refuge  to  give  birth  to  her  young.  Of  this  litter  but 
one  remained  alive  when  White  Fang  came  upon  the 
scene,  and  this  one  was  not  destined  to  live  long. 
Young  life  had  little  chance  in  such  a  famine. 

Kiche 's  greeting  of  her  grown  son  was  anything 
but  affectionate.  But  White  Fang  did  not  mind. 
He  had  outgrown  his  mother.  So  he  turned  tail 
philosophically  and  trotted  on  up  the  stream.  At 
the  forks  he  took  the  turning  to  the  left,  where  he 


182  WHITE  FANG 

found  the  lair  of  the  lynx  with  whom  his  mother  and 
he  had  fought  long  before.  Here,  in  the  abandoned 
lair,  he  settled  down  and  rested  for  a  day. 

During  the  early  summer,  in  the  last  days  of  the 
famine,  he  met  Lip-lip,  who  had  likewise  taken  to  the 
woods,  where  he  had  eked  out  a  miserable  existence. 
White  Fang  came  upon  him  unexpectedly.  Trotting 
in  opposite  directions  along  the  base  of  a  high  bluff, 
they  rounded  a  corner  of  rock  and  found  themselves 
face  to  face.  They  paused  with  instant  alarm,  and 
looked  at  each  other  suspiciously. 

White  Fang  was  in  splendid  condition.  His  hunt 
ing  had  been  good,  and  for  a  week  he  had  eaten  his 
fill.  He  was  even  gorged  from  his  latest  kill.  But 
in  the  moment  he  looked  at  Lip-lip  his  hair  rose  on 
end  all  along  his  back.  It  was  an  involuntary  bris 
tling  on  his  part,  the  physical  state  that  in  the  past 
had  always  accompanied  the  mental  state  produced 
in  him  by  Lip-lip 's  bullying  and  persecution.  As  in 
the  past  he  had  bristled  and  snarled  at  sight  of  Lip- 
lip,  so  now,  and  automatically,  he  bristled  and 
snarled.  He  did  not  waste  any  time.  The  thing- 
was  done  thoroughly  and  with  despatch.  Lip-lip 
essayed  to  back  away,  but  White  Fang  struck  him 
hard,  shoulder  to  shoulder.  Lip-lip  was  overthrown 
and  rolled  upon  his  back.  White  Fang's  teeth  drove 
into  the  scrawny  throat.  There  was  a  death-strug 
gle,  during  which  White  Fang  walked  around,  stiff- 


THE  FA  A]  INK  183 

legged  and  observant.     Then  he  resumed  his  course 
and  trotted  on  along  the  base  of  the  bluff. 

One  day,  not  long  after,  he  came  to  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  where  a  narrow  stretch  of  open  land  sloped 
down  to  the  Mackenzie.  He  had  been  over  this 
ground  before,  when  it  was  bare,  but  now  a  village 
occupied  it.  Still  hidden  amongst  the  trees,  he 
paused  to  study  the  situation.  Sights  and  sounds 
and  scents  were  familiar  to  him.  It  was  the  old 
village  changed  to  a  new  place.  But  sights  and 
sounds  and  smells  were  different  from  those  he  had 
last  had  when  he  fled  away  from  it.  There  was  no 
whimpering  nor  wailing.  Contented  sounds  saluted 
his  ear,  and  when  he  heafd  the  angry  voice  of  a 
woman  he  knew  it  to  be  the  anger  that  proceeds 
from  a  full  stomach.  And  there  was  a  smell  in  the 
air  of  fish.  There  was  food.  The  famine  was  gone. 
He  came  out  boldly  from  the  forest  and  trotted 
into  camp  straight  to  Gray  Beaver 's  tepee.  Gray 
Beaver  was  not  there ;  but  Kloo-kooch  welcomed  him 
with  glad  cries  and  the  whole  of  a  fresh-caught  fish, 
and  he  lay  down  to  wait  Gray  Beaver's  coming. 


PAKT  FOUR 

THE  SUPERIOR  GODS 

CHAPTEB      I  .........  THE  ENEMY  OF  HIS  KIND 

CHAPTER    II THE  MAD  GOD 

CHAPTER  III THE  REIGN  OF  HATE 

CHAPTEB   IV THE  CLINGING  DEATH 

CHAPTER     V THE  INDOMITABLE 

CHAPTER  VI  THE  LOVE-MASTER 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   ENEMY   OP   HIS   KIND 

HAD  there  been  in  White  Fang's  nature  any  possi 
bility,  no  matter  how  remote,  of  his  ever  coming  to 
fraternize  with  his  kind,  such  possibility  was  irre 
trievably  destroyed  when  he  was  made  leader  of  the 
sled-team.  For  now  the  dogs  hated  him — hated  him 
for  the  extra  meat  bestowed  upon  him  by  Mit-sah ; 
hated  him  for  all  the  real  and  fancied  favors  he 
received;  hated  him  for  that  he  fled  always  at  the 
head  of  the  team,  his  waving  brush  of  a  tail  and 
his  perpetually  retreating  hind-quarters  forever 
maddening  their  eyes. 

And  White  Fang  just  as  bitterly  hated  them  back. 
Being  sled-leader  was  anything  but  gratifying  to 
him.  To  be  compelled  to  run  away  before  the  yell 
ing  pack,  every  dog  of  which,  for  three  years,  he  had 
thrashed  and  mastered,  was  almost  more  than  he 
could  endure.  But  endure  it  he  must,  or  perish,  and 
the  life  that  was  in  him  had  no  desire  to  perish. 
The  moment  Mit-sah  gave  his  order  for  the  start, 
that  moment  the  whole  team,  with  eager,  savage 
cries,  sprang  forward  at  White  Fang. 

There  was  no  defence  for  him.    If  he  turned  upon 

187 


188  WHITE  FA^'G 


them,  Mit-sah  would  throw  the  stinging  lash  of  the 
whip  into  his  face.  Only  remained  to  him  to  run 
away.  He  could  not  encounter  that  howling  horde 
with  his  tail  and  hind-quarters.  These  were 
scarcely  fit  weapons  with  which  to  meet  the  many 
merciless  fangs.  So  run  away  he  did,  violating  his 
own  nature  and  pride  with  every  leap  he  made,  and 
leaping  all  day  long. 

One  cannot  violate  the  promptings  of  one's  na 
ture  without  having  that  nature  recoil  upon  itself. 
Such  a  recoil  is  like  that  of  a  hair,  made  to  grow  out 
from  the  body,  turning  unnaturally  upon  the  direc 
tion  of  its  growth  and  growing  into  the  body  —  a 
rankling,  festering  thing  of  hurt.  And  so  with 
White  Fang.  Every  urge  of  his  being  impelled  him 
to  spring  upon  the  pack  that  cried  at  his  heels,  but 
it  was  the  will  of  the  gods  that  this  should  not  be  ; 
and  behind  the  will,  to  enforce  it,  was  the  whip  of 
cariboo-gut  with  its  biting  thirty-foot  lash.  So 
White  Fang  could  only  eat  his  heart  in  bitterness 
and  develop  a  hatred  and  malice  commensurate  with 
the  ferocity  and  indomitability  of  his  nature. 

If  ever  a  creature  was  the  enemy  of  its  kind,  White 
Fang  was  that  creature.  He  asked  no  quarter,  gave 
none.  He  was  continually  marred  and  scarred  by 
the  teeth  of  the  pack,  and  as  continually  he  left  his 
own  marks  upon  the  pack.  Unlike  most  leaders, 
who,  when  camp  was  made  and  the  dogs  were  un- 


THE  ENEMY  OF  HIS  KIND  189 

hitched,  huddled  near  to  the  gods  for  protection, 
White  Fang  disdained  such  protection.  He  walked 
boldly  about  the  camp,  inflicting  punishment  in  the 
night  for  what  he  had  suffered  in  the  day.  In  the 
time  before  he  was  made  leader  of  the  team,  the 
pack  had  learned  to  get  out  of  his  way.  But  now  it 
was  different.  Excited  by  the  day-long  pursuit  of 
him,  swayed  subconsciously  by  the  insistent  itera 
tion  on  their  brains  of  the  sight  of  him  fleeing  away, 
mastered  by  the  feeling  of  mastery  enjoyed  all  day, 
the  dogs  could  not  bring  themselves  to  give  way  to 
him.  When  he  appeared  amongst  them,  there  was 
always  a  squabble.  His  progress  was  marked  by 
snarl  and  snap  and  growl.  The  very  atmosphere 
he  breathed  was  surcharged  with  hatred  and  malice, 
and  this  but  served  to  increase  the  hatred  and  malice 
without  him. 

When  Mit-sah  cried  out  his  command  for  the  team 
to  stop,  White  Fang  obeyed.  At  first  this  caused 
trouble  for  the  other  dogs.  All  of  them  would 
spring  upon  the  hated  leader,  only  to  find  the  tables 
turned.  Behind  him  would  be  Mit-sah,  the  great 
whip  singing  in  his  hand.  So  the  dogs  came  to  un 
derstand  that  when  the  team  stopped  by  order, 
W'hite  Fang  was  to  be  let  alone.  But  when  White 
Fang  stopped  without  orders,  then  it  was  allowed 
them  to  spring  upon  him  and  destroy  him  if  they 
could.  After  several  experiences,  White  Fang 


190  WHITE  FANG 

never  stopped  without  orders.  He  learned  quickly. 
It  was  in  the  nature  of  things  that  he  must  learn 
quickly,  if  he  were  to  survive  the  unusually  severe 
conditions  under  which  life  was  vouchsafed  him. 

But  the  dogs  could  never  learn  the  lesson  to  leave 
him  alone  in  camp.  Each  day,  pursuing  him  and 
crying  defiance  at  him,  the  lesson  of  the  previous 
night  was  erased,  and  that  night  would  have  to  be 
learned  over  again,  to  be  as  immediately  forgotten. 
Besides,  there  was  a  greater  consistence  in  their  dis 
like  of  him.  They  sensed  between  themselves  and 
him  a  difference  of  kind — cause  sufficient  in  itself 
for  hostility.  Like  him,  they  were  domesticated 
wolves.  But  they  had  been  domesticated  for  gen 
erations.  Much  of  the  Wild  had  been  lost,  so  that 
to  them  the  Wild  was  the  unknown,  the  terrible, 
the  ever  menacing  and  ever  warring.  But  to  him, 
in  appearance  and  action  and  impulse,  still  clung 
the  Wild.  He  symbolized  it,  was  its  personifica 
tion;  so  that  when  they  showed  their  teeth  to  him 
they  were  defending  themselves  against  the  powers 
of  destruction  that  lurked  in  the  shadows  of  the  for 
est  and  in  the  dark  beyond  the  camp-fire. 

But  there  was  one  lesson  the  dogs  did  learn,  and 
that  was  to  keep  together.  White  Fang  was  too  ter 
rible  for  any  of  them  to  face  single-handed.  They 
met  him  with  the  mass-formation,  otherwise  he 
would  have  killed  them,  one  by  one,  in  a  night.  As 


THE  ENEMY  OP  HIS  KIND  191 

it  was,  he  never  had  a  chance  to  kill  them.  He  might 
roll  a  dog  off  its  feet,  but  the  pack  would  be  upon 
him  before  he  could  follow  up  and  deliver  the  deadly 
throat-stroke.  At  the  first  hint  of  conflict,  the  whole 
team  drew  together  and  faced  him.  The  dogs  had 
quarrels  among  themselves,  but  these  were  forgotten 
when  trouble  was  brewing  with  White  Fang. 

On  the  other  hand,  try  as  they  would,  they  could 
not  kill  White  Fang.  He  was  too  quick  for  them, 
too  formidable,  too  wise.  He  avoided  tight  places 
and  always  backed  out  of  it  when  they  bade  fair  to 
surround  him.  While,  as  for  getting  him  off  his 
feet,  there  was  no  dog  among  them  capable  of  doing 
the  trick.  His  feet  clung  to  the  earth  with  the  same 
tenacity  that  he  clung  to  life.  For  that  matter,  life 
and  footing  were  synonymous  in  this  unending  war 
fare  with  the  pack,  and  none  knew  it  better  than 
White  Fang. 

So  he  became  the  enemy  of  his  kind,  domesticated 
wolves  that  they  were,  softened  by  the  fires  of  man, 
weakened  in  the  sheltering  shadow  of  man 's  strength. 
White  Fang  was  bitter  and  implacable.  The  clay 
of  him  was  so  moulded.  He  declared  a  vendetta 
against  all  dogs.  And  so  terribly  did  he  live  this 
vendetta  that  Gray  Beaver,  fierce  savage  himself, 
could  not  but  marvel  at  White  Fang's  ferocity. 
Never,  he  swore,  had  there  been  the  like  of  this  an 
imal  ;  and  the  Indians  in  strange  villages  swore  like- 


192  WHITE  FANG 

wise  when  they  considered  the  tale  of  his  killings 
amongst  their  dogs. 

When  White  Fang  was  nearly  five  years  old,  Gray 
Beaver  took  him  on  another  great  journey,  and  long 
remembered  was  the  havoc  he  worked  amongst  the 
dogs  of  the  many  villages  along  the  Mackenzie, 
across  the  Rockies,  and  down  the  Porcupine  to  the 
Yukon.  He  revelled  in  the  vengeance  he  wreaked 
upon  his  kind.  They  were  ordinary,  unsuspecting 
dogs.  They  were  <not  prepared  for  his  swiftness 
and  directness,  for  his  attack  without  warning. 
They  did  not  know  him  for  what  he  was,  a  lightning- 
flash  of  slaughter.  They  bristled  up  to  him,  stiff- 
legged  and  challenging,  while  he,  wasting  no  time  on 
elaborate  preliminaries,  snapping  into  action  like  a 
steel  spring,  was  at  their  throats  and  destroying 
them  before  they  knew  what  was  happening  and 
while  they  were  yet  in  the  throes  of  surprise. 

He  became  an  adept  at  fighting.  He  economized. 
He  never  wasted  his  strength,  never  tussled.  He 
was  in  too  quickly  for  that,  and,  if  he  missed,  was 
out  again  too  quickly.  The  dislike  of  the  wolf  for 
close  quarters  was  his  to  an  unusual  degree.  He 
could  not  endure  a  prolonged  contact  with  another 
body.  It  smacked  of  danger.  It  made  him  frantic. 
He  must  be  away,  free,  on  his  own  legs,  touching  no 
living  thing.  It  was  the  Wild  still  clinging  to  him, 
asserting  itself  through  him.  This  feeling  had  been 


THE  ENEMY  OF  HIS  KIND  193 

accentuated  by  the  Ishmaelite  life  he  had  led  from 
his  puppyhood.  Danger  lurked  in  contacts.  It  was 
the  trap,  ever  the  trap,  the  fear  of  it  lurking  deep  in 
the  life  of  him,  woven  into  the  fibre  of  him. 

In  consequence,  the  strange  dogs  he  encountered 
had  no  chance  against  him.  He  eluded  their  fangs. 
He  got  them,  or  got  away,  himself  untouched  in 
either  event.  In  the  natural  course  of  things  there 
were  exceptions  to  this.  There  were  times  when 
several  dogs,  pitching  on  to  him,  punished  him  be 
fore  he  could  get  away ;  and  there  were  times  when  a 
single  dog  scored  deeply  on  him.  But  these  were 
accidents.  In  the  main,  so  efficient  a  fighter  had  he 
become,  he  went  his  way  unscathed. 

Another  advantage  he  possessed  was  that  of  cor 
rectly  judging  time  and  distance.  Not  that  he  did 
this  consciously,  however.  He  did  not  calculate  such 
things.  It  was  all  automatic.  His  eyes  saw  cor 
rectly,  and  the  nerves  carried  the  vision  correctly 
to  his  brain.  The  parts  of  him  were  better  adjusted 
than  those  of  the  average  dog.  They  worked  to 
gether  more  smoothly  and  steadily.  His  was  a  bet 
ter,  far  better,  nervous,  mental,  and  muscular  coordi 
nation.  When  his  eyes  conveyed  to  his  brain  the 
moving  image  of  an  action,  his  brain,  without 
conscious  effort,  knew  the  space  that  limited  that 
action  and  the  time  required  for  its  completion. 
Thus,  he  could  avoid  the  leap  of  another  dog,  or  the 


194  WHITE  FANG 

drive  of  its  fangs,  and  at  the  same  moment  could 
seize  the  infinitesimal  fraction  of  time  in  which  to 
deliver  his  own  attack.  Body  and  brain,  his  was  a 
more  perfected  mechanism.  Not  that  he  was  to  be 
praised  for  it.  Nature  had  been  more  generous  to 
him  than  to  the  average  animal,  that  was  all. 

It  was  in  the  summer  that  White  Fang  arrived 
at  Fort  Yukon.  Gray  Beaver  had  crossed  the  great 
water-shed  between  the  Mackenzie  and  the  Yukon 
in  the  late  winter,  and  spent  the  spring  in  hunting 
among  the  western  outlying  spurs  of  the  Eockies. 
Then,  after  the  break-up  of  the  ice  on  the  Porcupine, 
he  had  built  a  canoe  and  paddled  down  that  stream 
to  where  it  effected  its  junction  with  the  Yukon  just 
under  the  Arctic  Circle.  Here  stood  the  old  Hud 
son's  Bay  Company  fort;  and  here  were  many  In 
dians,  much  food,  and  unprecedented  excitement. 
It  was  the  summer  of  1898,  and  thousands  of  gold- 
hunters  were  going  up  the  Yukon  to  Dawson  and 
the  Klondike.  Still  hundreds  of  miles  from  their 
goal,  nevertheless  many  of  them  had  been  on  the 
way  for  a  year,  and  the  least  any  of  them  had  trav 
elled  to  get  that  far  was  five  thousand  miles,  while 
some  had  come  from  the  other  side  of  the  world. 

Here  Gray  Beaver  Stopped.  A  whisper  of  the 
gold-rush  had  reached  his  ears,  and  he  had  come 
with  several  bales  of  furs,  and  another  of  gut-sewn 
mittens  and  moccasins.  He  would  not  have  ven- 


THE  ENEMY  OF  HIS  KIND  195 

tured  so  long  a  trip  had  he  not  expected  generous 
profits.  But  what  he  had  expected  was  nothing  to 
what  he  realized.  His  wildest  dream  had  not  ex 
ceeded  a  hundred  per  cent,  profit;  he  made  a  thou 
sand  per  cent.  And  like  a  true  Indian,  he  settled 
down  to  trade  carefully  and  slowly,  even  if  it  took 
all  summer  and  the  rest  of  the  winter  to  dispose  of 
his  goods. 

It  was  at  Fort  Yukon  that  White  Fang  saw  his 
first  white  men.  As  compared  with  the  Indians  he 
had  known,  they  were  to  him  another  race  of  beings, 
a  race  of  superior  gods.  They  impressed  him  as 
possessing  superior  power,  and  it  is  on  power  that 
god-head  rests.  White  Fang  did  not  reason  it  out, 
did  not  in  his  mind  make  the  sharp  generalization 
that  the  white  gods  were  more  powerful.  It  was  a 
feeling,  nothing  more,  and  yet  none  the  less  potent. 
As,  in  his  puppyhood,  the  looming  bulks  of  the 
tepees,  man-reared,  had  affected  him  as  manifesta 
tions  of  power,  so  was  he  affected  now  by  the  houses 
and  the  huge  fort  all  of  massive  logs.  Here  was 
power.  Those  white  gods  were  strong.  They  pos 
sessed  greater  mastery  over  matter  than  the  gods  he 
had  known,  most  powerful  among  which  was  Gray 
Beaver.  And  yet  Gray  Beaver  was  as  a  child-god 
among  these  white-skinned  ones. 

To  be  sure,  White  Fang  only  felt  these  things. 
He  was  not  conscious  of  them.  Yet  it  is  upon  feel- 


196  WHITE  FANG 

ing,  more  often  than  thinking,  that  animals  act ;  and 
every  act  White  Fang  now  performed  was  based 
upon  the  feeling  that  the  white  men  were  the  supe 
rior  gods.  In  the  first  place  he  was  very  suspicious 
of  them.  There  was  no  telling  what  unknown  ter 
rors  were  theirs,  what  unknown  hurts  they  could 
administer.  He  was  curious  to  observe  them,  fear 
ful  of  being  noticed  by  them.  For  the  first  few  hours 
he  was  content  with  slinking  around  and  watching 
them  from  a  safe  distance.  Then  he  saw  that  no 
harm  befell  the  dogs  that  were  near  to  them,  and  he 
came  in  closer. 

In  turn,  he  was  an  object  of  great  curiosity  to 
them.  His  wolfish  appearance  caught  their  eyes  at 
once,  and  they  pointed  him  out  to  one  another.  This 
act  of  pointing  put  White  Fang  <on  his  guard,  and 
when  they  tried  to  approach  him  he  showed  his  teeth 
and  backed  away.  Not  one  succeeded  in  laying  a 
hand  on  him,  and  it  was  well  that  they  did  not. 

White  Fang  soon  learned  that  very  few  of  these 
gods — not  more  than  a  dozen — lived  at  this  place. 
Every  two  or  three  days  a  steamer  (another  and 
colossal  manifestation  of  power)  came  in  to  the  bank 
and  stopped  for  several  hours.  The  white  men  came 
from  off  these  steamers  and  went  away  on  them 
again.  There  seemed  untold  numbers  of  these  white 
men.  In  the  first  day  or  so,  he  saw  more  of  them 
than  he  had  seen  Indians  in  all  life ;  and  as  the  days 


THE  ENEMY  OF  HIS  KIND  197 

went  by  they  continued  to  come  up  the  river,  stop, 
and  then  go  on  up  the  river  and  out  of  sight. 

But  if  the  white  gods  were  all-powerful,  their  clogs 
did  not  amount  to  much.  This  White  Fang  quickly 
discovered  by  mixing  with  those  that  came  ashore 
with  their  masters.  They  were  of  irregular  shapes 
and  sizes.  Some  were  short-legged — too  short ;  oth 
ers  were  long-legged — too  long.  They  had  hair  in 
stead  of  fur,  and  a  few  had  very  little  hair  at  that. 
And  none  of  them  knew  how  to  fight. 

As  an  enemy  of  his  kind,  it  was  in  White  Fang's 
province  to  fight  with  them.  This  he  did,  and  he 
quickly  achieved  for  them  a  mighty  contempt.  They 
were  soft  and  helpless,  made  much  noise,  and  floun 
dered  around  clumsily,  trying  to  accomplish  by  main 
strength  what  he  accomplished  by  dexterity  and  cun 
ning.  They  rushed  bellowing  at  him.  He  sprang 
to  the  side.  They  did  not  know  what  had  become 
of  him;  and  in  that  moment  he  struck  them  on  the 
shoulder,  rolling  them  off  their  feet  and  delivering 
his  stroke  at  the  throat. 

Sometimes  this  stroke  was  successful,  and  a 
stricken  dog  rolled  in  the  dirt,  to  be  pounced  upon 
and  torn  to  pieces  by  the  pack  of  Indian  dogs  that 
waited.  White  Fang  was  wise.  He  had  long  since 
learned  that  the  gods  were  made  angry  when  their 
dogs  were  killed.  The  white  men  were  no  exception 
to  this.  So  he  was  content,  when  he  had  overthrown 


198  WHITE  FANG 

and  slashed  wide  the  throat  of  one  of  their  dogs,  to 
drop  back  and  let  the  pack  go  in  and  do  the  cruel 
finishing  work.  It  was  then  that  the  white  men 
rushed  in,  visiting  their  wrath  heavily  on  the  pack, 
while  White  Fang  went  free.  He  would  stand  off  at 
a  little  distance  and  look  on,  while  stones,  clubs, 
axes,  and  all  sorts  of  weapons  fell  upon  his  fellows. 
White  Fang  was  very  wise. 

But  his  fellows  grew  wise,  in  their  own  way ;  and 
in  this  White  Fang  grew  wise  with  them.  They 
learned  that  it  was  when  a  steamer  first  tied  to  the 
bank  that  they  had  their  fun.  After  the  first  two  or 
three  strange  dogs  had  been  downed  and  destroyed, 
the  white  men  hustled  their  own  animals  back  on 
board  and  wreaked  savage  vengeance  on  the  offend 
ers.  One  white  man,  having  seen  his  dog,  a  setter, 
torn  to  pieces  before  his  eyes,  drew  a  revolver.  He 
fired  rapidly,  six  times,  and  six  of  the  pack  lay  dead 
or  dying — another  manifestation  of  power  that  sank 
deep  into  White  Fang's  consciousness. 

White  Fang  enjoyed  it  all.  He  did  not  love  his 
kind,  and  he  was  shrewd  enough  to  escape  hurt  him 
self.  At  first,  the  killing  of  the  white  men's  dogs 
had  been  a  diversion.  After  a  time  it  became  his 
occupation.  There  was  no  work  for  him  to  do. 
Gray  Beaver  was  busy  trading  and  getting  wealthy. 
So  White  Fang  hung  around  the  landing  with  the 
disreputable  gang  of  Indian  dogs,  waiting  for  steam- 


THE  ENEMY  OF  HIS  KIND  199 

ers.  With  the  arrival  of  a  steamer  the  fun  began. 
After  a  few  minutes,  by  the  time  the  white  men  had 
got  over  their  surprise,  the  gang  scattered.  The 
fun  was  over  until  the  next  steamer  should  arrive. 

But  it  can  scarcely  be  said  that  White  Fang  was 
a  member  of  the  gang.  He  did  not  mingle  with  it, 
but  remained  aloof,  always  himself,  and  was  even 
feared  by  it.  It  is  true,  he  worked  with  it.  He 
picked  the  quarrel  with  the  strange  dog  while  the 
gang  waited.  And  when  he  had  overthrown  the 
strange  dog  the  gang  went  in  to  finish  it.  But  it  is 
equally  true  that  he  then  withdrew,  leaving  the  gang 
to  receive  the  punishment  of  the  outraged  gods. 

It  did  not  require  much  exertion  to  pick  these 
quarrels.  All  he  had  to  do,  when  the  strange  dogs 
came  ashore,  was  to  show  himself.  When  they  saw 
him  they  rushed  for  him.  It  was  their  instinct. 
He  was  the  Wild — the  unknown,  the  terrible,  the 
ever  menacing,  the  thing  that  prowled  in  the  dark 
ness  around  the  fires  of  the  primeval  world  when 
they,  cowering  close  to  the  fires,  were  reshaping 
their  instincts,  learning  to  fear  the  Wild  out  of  which 
they  had  come,  and  which  they  had  deserted  and  be 
trayed.  Generation  by  generation,  down  all  the  gen 
erations,  had  this  fear  of  the  Wild  been  stamped  into 
their  natures.  For  centuries  the  Wild  had  stood  for 
terror  and  destruction.  And  during  all  this  time 
free  license  had  been  theirs,  from  their  masters,  to 


200  WHITE  FANG 

kill  the  things  of  the  Wild.  In  doing  this  they  had 
protected  both  themselves  and  the  gods  whose  com 
panionship  they  shared. 

And  so  fresh  from  the  soft  southern  world,  these 
dogs,  trotting  down  the  gang-plank  and  out  upon  the 
Yukon  shore,  had  but  to  see  White  Fang  to  experi 
ence  the  irresistible  impulse  to  rush  upon  him  and 
destroy  him.  They  might  be  town-reared  dogs,  but 
the  instinctive  fear  of  the  Wild  was  theirs  just  the 
same.  Not  alone  with  their  own  eyes  did  they  see 
the  wolfish  creature  in  the  clear  light  of  the  day, 
standing  before  them.  They  saw  him  with  the  eyes 
of  their  ancestors,  and  by  their  inherited  memory 
they  knew  White  Fang  for  the  wolf,  and  they  re 
membered  the  ancient  feud. 

All  of  which  served  to  make  White  Fang's  days 
enjoyable.  If  the  sight  of  him  drove  these  strange 
dogs  upon  him,  so  much  the  better  for  him,  so  much 
the  worse  for  them.  They  looked  upon  him  as  legiti 
mate  prey,  and  as  legitimate  prey  he  looked  upon 
them. 

Not  for  nothing  had  he  first  seen  the  light  of  day 
in  a  lonely  lair  and  fought  his  first  fights  with  the 
ptarmigan,  the  weasel,  and  the  lynx.  And  not  for 
nothing  had  his  puppyhbod  been  made  bitter  by  the 
persecution  of  Lip-lip  and  the  whole  puppy-pack. 
It  might  have  been  otherwise,  and  he  would  then 
have  been  otherwise.  Had  Lip-lip  not  existed,  he 


THE  ENEMY  OF  HIS  KIND  201 

would  have  passed  his  puppyhood  with  the  other 
puppies  and  grown  up  more  doglike  and  with  more 
liking  for  dogs.  Had  Gray  Beaver  possessed  the 
plummet  of  affection  and  love,  he  might  have 
sounded  the  deeps  of  White  Fang's  nature  and 
brought  up  to  the  surface  all  manner  of  kindly  qual 
ities.  But  these  things  had  not  been  so.  The  clay 
of  White  Fang  had  been  moulded  until  he  became 
what  he  was,  morose  and  lonely,  unloving  and  fe 
rocious,  the  enemy  of  all  his  kind. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   MAD   GOD 

A  SMALL  number  of  white  men  lived  in  Fort  Yukon. 
These  men  had  been  long  in  the  country.  They 
called  themselves  Sour-doughs,  and  took  great 
pride  in  so  classifying  themselves.  For  other  men, 
new  in  the  land,  they  felt  nothing  but  disdain.  The 
men  who  came  ashore  from  the  steamers  were  new 
comers.  They  were  known  as  chechaquos,  and  they 
always  wilted  at  the  application  of  the  name.  They 
made  their  bread  with  baking-powder.  This  was 
the  invidious  distinction  between  them  and  the  Sour 
doughs,  who,  forsooth,  made  their  bread  from  sour 
dough  because  they  had  no  baking-powder. 

All  of  which  is  neither  here  nor  there.  The  men 
in  the  fort  disdained  the  newcomers  and  enjoyed 
seeing  them  come  to  grief.  Especially  did  they  en 
joy  the  havoc  worked  amongst  the  newcomers'  dogs 
by  White  Fang  and  his  disreputable  gang.  When 
a  steamer  arrived,  the  men  of  the  fort  made  it  a 
point  always  to  come  down  to  the  bank  and  see  the 
fun.  They  looked  forward  to  it  with  as  much  an 
ticipation  as  did  the  Indian  dogs,  while  they  were 

202 


THE  MAD  GOD  203 

not  slow  to  appreciate  the  savage  and  crafty  part 
played  by  White  Fang. 

But  there  was  one  man  amongst  them  who  particu 
larly  enjoyed  the  sport.  He  would  come  running  at 
the  first  sound  of  a  steamboat's  whistle;  and  when 
the  last  fight  was  over  and  White  Fang  and  the  pack 
had  scattered,  he  would  return  slowly  to  the  fort, 
his  face  heavy  with  regret.  Sometimes,  when  a  soft 
Southland  dog  went  down,  shrieking  its  death-cry 
under  the  fangs  of  the  pack,  this  man  would  be  un 
able  to  contain  himself,  and  would  leap  into  the  air 
and  cry  out  with  delight.  And  always  he  had  a 
sharp  and  covetous  eye  for  White  Fang. 

This  man  was  called  "Beauty"  by  the  other  men 
of  the  fort.  No  one  knew  his  first  name,  and  in 
general  he  was  known  in  the  country  as  Beauty 
Smith.  But  he  was  anything  save  a  beauty.  To 
antithesis  was  due  his  naming.  He  was  preemi 
nently  unbeautiful.  Nature  had  been  niggardly 
with  him.  He  was  a  small  man  to  begin  with;  and 
upon  his  meagre  frame  was  deposited  an  even  more 
ntrikingly  meagre  head.  Its  apex  might  be  likened 
to  a  point.  In  fact,  in  his  boyhood,  before  he  had 
been  named  Beauty  by  his  fellows,  he  had  been 
called  "Pinhead." 

Backward,  from  the  apex,  his  head  slanted  down 
to  his  neck;  and  forward,  it  slanted  uncompromis 
ingly  to  meet  a  low  and  remarkably  wide  forehead. 


204  WHITE  FANG 

Beginning  here,  as  though  regretting  her  parsimony, 
Nature  had  spread  his  features  with  a  lavish  hand. 
His  eyes  were  large,  and  between  them  was  the  dis 
tance  of  two  eyes.  His  face,  in  relation  to  the  rest 
of  him,  was  prodigious.  In  order  to  discover  the 
necessary  area,  Nature  had  given  him  an  enormous 
prognathous  jaw.  It  was  wide  and  heavy,  and  pro 
truded  outward  and  down  until  it  seemed  to  rest  on 
his  chest.  Possibly  this  appearance  was  due  to  the 
weariness  of  the  slender  neck,  unable  properly  to 
support  so  great  a  burden. 

This  jaw  gave  the  impression  of  ferocious  deter 
mination.  But  something  lacked.  Perhaps  it  was 
from  excess.  Perhaps  the  jaw  was  too  large.  At 
any  rate,  it  was  a  lie.  Beauty  Smith  was  known 
far  and  wide  as  the  weakest  of  weak-kneed  and 
snivelling  cowards.  To  complete  his  description, 
his  teeth  were  large  and  yellow,  while  the  two  eye- 
teeth,  larger  than  their  fellows,  showed  under  his 
lean  lips  like  fangs.  His  eyes  were  yellow  and 
muddy,  as  though  Nature  had  run  short  on  pigments 
and  squeezed  together  the  dregs  of  all  her  tubes.  It 
was  the  same  with  his  hair,  sparse  and  irregular  of 
growth,  muddy-yellow  and  dirty-yellow,  rising  on 
his  head  and  sprouting  x>ut  of  his  face  in  unexpected 
tufts  and  bunches,  in  appearance  like  clumped  and 
wind-blown  grain. 

In  short,  Beauty  Smith  was  a  monstrosity,  and  the 


THE  MAD  GOD  205 

blame  of  it  lay  elsewhere.  He  was  not  responsible. 
The  clay  of  him  had  been  so  moulded  in  the  making. 
He  did  the  cooking  for  the  other  men  in  the  fort,  the 
dish-washing  and  the  drudgery.  They  did  not  de 
spise  him.  Eather  did  they  tolerate  him  in  a  broad 
human  way,  as  one  tolerates  any  creature  evilly 
treated  in  the  making.  Also,  they  feared  him.  His 
cowardly  rages  made  them  dread  a  shot  in  the  back 
or  poison  in  their  coffee.  But  somebody  had  to  do 
the  cooking,  and  whatever  else  his  shortcomings, 
Beauty  Smith  could  cook. 

This  was  the  man  that  looked  at  White  Fang, 
delighted  in  his  ferocious  prowess,  and  desired  to 
possess  him.  He  made  overtures  to  White  Fang 
from  the  first.  White  Fang  began  by  ignoring  him. 
Later  on,  when  the  overtures  became  more  insistent, 
White  Fang  bristled  and  bared  his  teeth  and  backed 
away.  He  did  not  like  the  man.  The  feel  of  him 
was  bad.  He  sensed  the  evil  in  him,  and  feared  the 
extended  hand  and  the  attempts  at  soft-spoken 
speech.  Because  of  all  this,  he  hated  the  man. 

With  the  simpler  creatures,  good  and  bad  are 
things  simply  understood.  The  good  stands  for  all 
things  that  bring  easement  and  satisfaction  and  sur 
cease  from  pain.  Therefore,  the  good  is  liked. 
The  bad  stands  for  all  things  that  are  fraught  with 
discomfort,  menace,  and  hurt,  and  is  hated  accord 
ingly.  White  Fang's  feel  of  Beauty  Smith  was  bad. 


206  WHITE  FANG 

From  the  man 's  distorted  body  and  twisted  mind,  in 
occult  ways,  like  mists  rising  from  malarial  marshes, 
came  emanations  of  the  unhealth  within.  Not  by 
reasoning,  not  by  the  five  senses  alone,  but  by  other 
and  remoter  and  uncharted  senses,  came  the  feeling 
to  White  Fang  that  the  man  was  ominous  with  evil, 
pregnant  with  hurtfulness,  and  therefore  a  thing 
bad,  and  wisely  to  be  hated. 

White  Fang  was  in  Gray  Beaver's  camp  when 
Beauty  Smith  first  visited  it.  At  the  faint  sound  of 
his  distant  feet,  before  he  came  in  sight,  White  Fang 
knew  who  was  coming  and  began  to  bristle.  He  had 
been  lying  down  in  an  abandon  of  comfort,  but  he 
arose  quickly,  and,  as  the  man  arrived,  slid  away 
in  true  wolf -fashion  to  the  edge  of  the  camp.  He 
did  not  know  what  they  said,  but  he  could  see  the 
man  and  Gray  Beaver  talking  together.  Once,  the 
man  pointed  at  him,  and  White  Fang  snarled  back  as 
though  the  hand  were  just  descending  upon  him  in 
stead  of  being,  as  it  was,  fifty  feet  away.  The  man 
laughed  at  this ;  and  White  Fang  slunk  away  to  the 
sheltering  woods,  his  head  turned  to  observe  as  he 
glided  softly  over  the  ground. 

Gray  Beaver  refused  to  sell  the  dog.  He  had 
grown  rich  with  his  trading  and  stood  in  need  of 
nothing.  Besides,  White  Fang  was  a  valuable  ani 
mal,  the  strongest  sled-dog  he  had  ever  owned,  and 
the  best  leader.  Furthermore,  there  was  no  dog 


THE   MAD  (JOD  207 

like  him  on  the  Mackenzie  nor  the  Yukon.  He  could 
fight.  He  killed  other  dogs  as  easily  as  men  killed 
mosquitoes.  (Beauty  Smith's  eyes  lighted  up  at 
this,  and  he  licked  his  thin  lips  with  an  eager  tongue.) 
No,  White  Fang  was  not  for  sale  at  any  price. 

But  Beauty  Smith  knew  the  ways  of  Indians.  He 
visited  Gray  Beaver's  camp  often,  and  hidden  under 
his  coat  was  always  a  black  bottle  or  so.  One  of  the 
potencies  of  whiskey  is  the  breeding  of  thirst.  Gray 
Beaver  got  the  thirst.  His  fevered  membranes  and 
burnt  stomach  began  to  clamor  for  more  and  more 
of  the  scorching  fluid;  while  his  brain,  thrust  all 
awry  by  the  unwonted  stimulant,  permitted  him  to 
go  any  length  to  obtain  it.  The  money  he  had  re 
ceived  for  his  furs  and  mittens  and  moccasins  began 
to  go.  It  went  faster  and  faster,  and  the  shorter 
his  money-sack  grew,  the  shorter  grew  his  tem 
per. 

In  the  end  his  money  and  goods  and  temper  were 
all  gone.  Nothing  remained  to  him  but  his  thirst,  a 
prodigious  possession  in  itself  that  grew  more  pro 
digious  with  every  sober  breath  he  drew.  Then  it 
was  that  Beauty  Smith  had  talk  with  him  again 
about  the  sale  of  White  Fang;  but  this  time  the 
price  offered  was  in  bottles,  not  dollars,  and  Gray 
Beaver's  ears  were  more  eager  to  hear. 

"You  ketch  um  dog  you  take  um  all  right,"  was 
his  last  word. 


208  WHITE  FANG 

The  bottles  were  delivered,  but  after  two  days. 
"You  ketch  um  dog,"  were  Beauty  Smith's  words 
to  Gray  Beaver. 

White  Fang  slunk  into  camp  one  evening  and 
dropped  down  with  a  sigh  of  content.  The  dreaded 
white  god  was  not  there.  For  days  his  manifesta 
tions  of  desire  to  lay  hands  on  him  had  been  growing 
more  insistent,  and  during  that  time  White  Fang 
had  been  compelled  to  avoid  the  camp.  He  did  not 
know  what  evil  was  threatened  by  those  insistent 
hands.  He  knew  only  that  they  did  threaten  evil  of 
some  sort,  and  that  it  was  best  for  him  to  keep  out 
of  their  reach. 

But  scarcely  had  he  lain  down  when  Gray  Beaver 
staggered  over  to  him  and  tied  a  leather  thong 
around  his  neck.  He  sat  down  beside  White  Fang, 
holding  the  end  of  the  thong  in  his  hand.  In  the 
other  hand  he  held  a  bottle,  which,  from  time  to 
time,  was  inverted  above  his  head  to  the  accompani- 
met  of  gurgling  noises. 

An  hour  of  this  passed,  when  the  vibrations  of 
feet  in  contact  with  the  ground  foreran  the  one  who 
approached.  White  Fang  heard  it  first,  and  he  was 
bristling  with  recognition  while  Gray  Beaver  still 
nodded  stupidly.  White  Fang  tried  to  draw  the 
thong  softly  out  of  his  master's  hand;  but  the  re 
laxed  fingers  closed  tightly  and  Gray  Beaver  roused 
himself. 


THE  MAD  GOD  209 

Beauty  Smith  strode  into  camp  and  stood  over 
White  Fang.  He  snarled  softly  up  at  the  thing  of 
fear,  watching  keenly  the  deportment  of  the  hands. 
One  hand  extended  outward  and  began  to  descend 
upon  his  head.  His  soft  snarl  grew  tense  and  harsh. 
The  hand  continued  slowly  to  descend,  while  he 
crouched  beneath  it,  eying  it  malignantly,  his  snarl 
growing  shorter  and  shorter  as,  with  quickening 
breath,  it  approached  its  culmination.  Suddenly  he 
snapped,  striking  with  his  fangs  like  a  snake.  The 
hand  was  jerked  back,  and  the  teeth  came  together 
emptily  with  a  sharp  click.  Beauty  Smith  was 
frightened  and  angry.  Gray  Beaver  clouted  White 
Fang  alongside  the  head,  so  that  he  cowered  down 
close  to  the  earth  in  respectful  obedience. 

White  Fang's  suspicious  eyes  followed  every 
movement.  He  saw  Beauty  Smith  go  away  and  re 
turn  with  a  stout  club.  Then  the  end  of  the  thong 
was  given  over  to  him  by  Gray  Beaver.  Beauty 
Smith  started  to  walk  away.  The  thong  grew  taut. 
White  Fang  resisted  it.  Gray  Beaver  clouted  him 
right  and  left  to  make  him  get  up  and  follow.  He 
obeyed,  but  with  a  rush,  hurling  himself  upon  the 
stranger  who  was  dragging  him  away.  Beauty 
Smith  did  not  jump  away.  He  had  been  waiting  for 
this.  He  swung  the  club  smartly,  stopping  the  rush 
midway  and  smashing  White  Fang  down  upon  the 
ground.  Gray  Beaver  laughed  and  nodded  ap- 


210  WHITE  FANG 

proval.  Beauty  Smith  tightened  the  thong  again, 
and  White  Fang  crawled  limply  and  dizzily  to  his 
feet. 

He  did  not  rush  a  second  time.  One  smash  from 
the  club  wa*s  sufficient  to  convince  him  that  the  white 
god  knew  how  to  handle  it,  and  he  was  too  wise 
to  fight  the  inevitable.  So  he  followed  morosely  at 
Beauty  Smith's  heels,  his  tail  between  his  legs,  yet 
snarling  softly  under  his  breath.  But  Beauty  Smith 
kept  a  wary  eye  on  him,  and  the  club  was  held  al 
ways  ready  to  strike. 

At  the  fort  Beauty  Smith  left  him  securely  tied 
and  went  in  to  bed.  White  Fang  waited  an  hour. 
Then  he  applied  his  teeth  to  the  thong,  and  in  the 
space  of  ten  seconds  was  free.  He  had  wasted  no 
time  with  his  teeth.  There  had  been  no  useless 
gnawing.  The  thong  was  cut  across,  diagonally,  al 
most  as  clean  as  though  done  by  a  knife.  White 
Fang  looked  up  at  the  fort,  at  the  same  time  bris 
tling  and  growling.  Then  he  turned  and  trotted 
back  to  Gray  Beaver '&  camp.  He  owed  no  allegiance 
to  this  strange  and  terrible  god.  He  had  given  him 
self  to  Gray  Beaver,  and  to  Gray  Beaver  he  consid 
ered  he  still  belonged. 

But  what  had  occurred  before  was  repeated — with 
a  difference.  Gray  Beaver  again  made  him  fast 
with  a  thong,  and  in  the  morning  turned  him  over  to 
Beauty  Smith.  And  here  was  where  the  difference 


THE  MAD  GOD  211 

came  in.  Beauty  Smith  gave  him  a  beating.  Tied 
securely,  White  Fang  could  only  rage  futilely  and 
endure  the  punishment.  Club  and  whip  were  both 
used  upon  him,  and  he  experienced  the  worst  beat 
ing  he  had  ever  received  in  his  life.  Even  the  big 
beating  given  him  in  his  puppyhood  by  Gray  Beaver 
was  mild  compared  with  this. 

Beauty  Smith  enjoyed  the  task.  He  delighted  in 
it.  He  gloated  over  his  victim,  and  his  eyes  flamed 
dully,  as  he  swung  the  whip  or  club  and  listened  to 
White  Fang's  cries  of  pain  and  to  his  helpless  bel 
lows  and  snarls.  For  Beauty  Smith  was  cruel  in  the 
way  that  cowards  are  cruel.  Cringing  and  snivel 
ling  himself  before  the  blows  or  angry  speech  of  a 
man,  he  revenged  himself,  in  turn,  upon  creatures 
weaker  than  he.  All  life  likes  power,  and  Beauty 
Smith  was  no  exception.  Denied  the  expression  of 
power  amongst  his  own  Mud,  he  fell  back  upon  the 
lesser  creatures  and  there  vindicated  the  life  that 
was  in  him.  But  Beauty  Smith  had  not  created  him 
self,  and  no  blame  was  to  be  attached  to  him.  He 
had  come  into  the  world  with  a  twisted  body  anil  a 
brute  intelligence.  This  had  constituted  the  clay  of 
him,  and  it  had  not  been  kindly  moulded  by  the 
world. 

White  Fang  knew  why  he  was  being  beaten. 
When  Gray  Beaver  tied  the  thong  around  his  neck, 
and  passed  the  end  of  the  thong  into  Beauty  Smith's 


212  WHITE  FAISG 

keeping,  White  Fang  knew  that  it  was  his  god's 
will  for  him  to  go  with  Beauty  Smith.  And  when 
Beauty  Smith  left  him  tied  outside  the  fort,  he 
knew  that  it  was  Beauty  Smith's  will  that  he  should 
remain  there.  Therefore,  he  had  disobeyed  the  will 
of  both  the  gods,  and  earned  the  consequent  punish 
ment.  He  had  seen  dogs  change  owners  in  the  past, 
and  he  had  seen  the  runaways  beaten  as  he  was 
being  beaten.  He  was  wise,  and  yet  in  the  nature 
of  him  there  were  forces  greater  than  wisdom.  One 
of  these  was  fidelity.  He  did  not  love  Gray  Beaver 
yet,  even  in  the  face  of  his  will  and  his  anger,  he  was 
faithful  to  him.  He  could  not  help  it.  This  faith 
fulness  was  a  quality  of  the  clay  that  composed  him. 
It  was  the  quality  that  was  peculiarly  the  possession 
of  his  kind;  the  quality  that  set  apart  his  species 
from  all  other  species ;  the  quality  that  had  enabled 
the  wolf  and  the  wild  dog  to  come  in  from  the  open 
and  be  the  companions  of  man. 

After  the  beating,  White  Fang  was  dragged  back 
to  the  fort.  But  this  time  Beauty  Smith  left  him 
tied  with  a  stick.  One  does  not  give  up  a  god  easily, 
and  so  with  White  Fang.  Gray  Beaver  was  his  own 
particular  god,  and,  in  spite  of  Gray  Beaver's  will, 
White  Fang  still  clung  to  him  and  would  not  give 
him  up.  Gray  Beaver  had  betrayed  and  forsaken 
him,  but  that  had  no  effect  upon  him.  Not  for  noth 
ing  had  he  surrendered  himself  body  and  soul  to 


THE  MAD  GOD  213 

Gray  Beaver.  There  had  been  no  reservation  on 
White  Fang's  part,  and  the  bond  was  not  to  be 
broken  easily. 

So  in  the  night,  when  the  men  in  the  fort  were 
asleep,  White  Fang  applied  his  teeth  to  the  stick  that 
held  him.  The  wood  was  seasoned  and  dry,  and  it 
was  tied  so  closely  to  his  neck  that  he  could  scarcely 
get  his  teeth  to  it.  It  was  only  by  the  severest  mus 
cular  exertion  and  neck-arching  that  he  succeeded  in 
getting  the  wood  between  his  teeth,  and  barely  be 
tween  his  teeth  at  that ;  and  it  was  only  by  the  ex 
ercise  of  an  immense  patience,  extending  through 
many  hours,  that  he  succeeded  in  gnawing  through 
the  stick.  This  was  something  that  dogs  were  not 
supposed  to  do.  It  was  unprecedented.  But  White 
Fang  did  it,  trotting  away  from  the  fort  in  the  early 
morning  with  the  end  of  the  stick  hanging  to  his 
neck. 

He  was  wise.  But  had  he  been  merely  wise  he 
would  not  have  gone  back  to  Gray  Beaver,  who  had 
already  twice  betrayed  him.  But  there  was  his 
faithfulness,  and  he  went  back  to  be  betrayed  yet  a 
third  time.  Again  he  yielded  to  the  tying  of  a  thong 
around  his  neck  by  Gray  Beaver,  and  again  Beauty 
Smith  came  to  claim  him.  And  this  time  he  was 
beaten  even  more  severely  than  before. 

Gray  Beaver  looked  on  stolidly  while  the  white 
man  wielded  the  whip.  He  gave  no  protection.  It 


214  WHITE  FANG 

was  no  longer  his  dog.  When  the  beating  was  over 
White  Fang  was  sick.  A  soft  Southland  dog  would 
have  died  under  it,  but  not  he.  His  school  of  life 
had  been  sterner,  and  he  was  himself  of  sterner 
stuff.  He  had  too  great  vitality.  His  clutch  on  life 
was  too  strong.  But  he  was  very  sick.  At  first  he 
was  unable  to  drag  himself  along,  and  Beauty  Smith 
had  to  wait  half  an  hour  on  him.  And  then,  blind 
and  reeling,  he  followed  at  Beauty  Smith's  heels 
back  to  the  fort. 

But  now  he  was  tied  with  a  chain  that  defied  his 
teeth,  arid  Jie  strove  in  vain,  by  lunging,  to  draw  the 
staple  from  the  timber  into  which  it  was  driven. 
After  a  few  days,  sober  and  bankrupt,  Gray  Beaver 
departed  up  the  Porcupine  on  his  long  journey  to  the 
Mackenzie.  White  Fang  remained  on  the  Yukon, 
the  property  of  a  man  more  than  half  mad  and  all 
brute.  But  what  is  a  dog  to  know  in  its  conscious 
ness  of  madness?  To  White  Fang,  Beauty  Smith 
was  a  veritable,  if  terrible,  god.  He  was  a  mad  god 
at  best,  but  White  Fang  knew  nothing  of  madness ; 
he  knew  only  that  he  must  submit  to  the  will  of  this 
new  master,  obey  his  every  whim  and  fancy. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  REIGN    OF   HATE 

UNDER  the  tutelage  of  the  mad  god,  White  Fang 
became  a  fiend.  He  was  kept  chained  in  a  pen  at 
the  rear  of  the  fort,  and  here  Beauty  Smith  teased 
and  irritated  and  drove  him  wild  with  petty  tor 
ments.  The  man  early  discovered  White  Fang's 
susceptibility  to  laughter,  and  made  it  a  point,  after 
painfully  tricking  him,  to  laugh  at  him.  This 
laughter  was  uproarious  and  scornful,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  god  pointed  his  finger  derisively  at 
White  Fang.  At  such  times  reason  fled  from  White 
Fang,  and  in  his  transports  of  rage  he  was  even 
more  mad  than  Beauty  Smith. 

Formerly,  White  Fang  had  been  merely  the  enemy 
of  his  kind,  withal  a  ferocious  enemy.  He  now  be 
came  the  enemy  of  all  things,  and  more  ferocious 
than  ever.  To  such  an  extent  was  he  tormented, 
that  he  hated  blindly  and  without  the  faintest  spark 
of  ^reason.  He  hated  the  chain  that  bound  him,  the 
men  who  peered  in  at  him  through  the  slats  of  the 
pen,  the  dogs  that  accompanied  the  men  and  that 
snarled  malignantly  at  him  in  his  helplessness.  He 
hated  the  very  wood  of  the  pen  that  confined  him. 

215 


216  WHITE  FANG 

And  first,  last,  and  most  of  all,  he  hated  Beauty 
Smith. 

But  Beauty  Smith  had  a  purpose  in  all  that  he 
did  to  White  Fang.  One  day  a  number  of  men  gath 
ered  about  the  pen.  Beauty  Smith  entered,  club 
in  hand,  and  took  the  chain  from  off  White  Fang's 
neck.  When  his  master  had  gone  out,  White  Fang 
turned  loose  and  tore  around  the  pen,  trying  to  get 
at  the  men  outside.  He  was  magnificently  terrible. 
Fully  five  feet  in  length,  and  standing  two  and  one- 
half  feet  at  the  shoulder,  he  far  outweighed  a  wolf  of 
corresponding  size.  From  his  mother  he  had  in 
herited  the  heavier  proportions  of  the  dog,  so  that  he 
weighed,  without  any  fat  and  without  an  ounce  of 
superfluous  flesh,  over  ninety  pounds.  It  was  all 
muscle,  bone,  and  sinew — fighting  flesh  in  the  finest 
condition. 

The  door  of  the  pen  was  being  opened  again. 
White  Fang  paused.  Something  unusual  was  hap 
pening.  He  waited.  The  door  was  opened  wider. 
Then  a  huge  dog  was  thrust  inside,  and  the  door 
was  slammed  shut  behind  him.  White  Fang  had 
never  seen  such  a  dog  (it  was  a  mastiff) ;  but  the  size 
and  fierce  aspect  of  the  intruder  did  not  deter  him. 
Here  was  something,  not  wood  nor  iron,  upon  which 
to  wreak  his  hate.  He  leaped  in  with  a  flash  of  fangs 
that  ripped  down  the  side  of  the  mastiff 's  neck. 
The  mastiff  shook  his  head,  growled  hoarsely,  and 


THE  REIGN  OF  HATE  217 

plunged  at  White  Fang.  But  White  Fang  was  here, 
there,  and  everywhere,  always  evading  and  eluding, 
and  always  leaping  in  and  slashing  with  his  fangs 
and  leaping  out  again  in  time  to  escape  punish 
ment. 

The  men  outside  shouted  and  applauded,  while 
Beauty  Smith,  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight,  gloated  over 
the  ripping  and  mangling  performed  by  White  Fang. 
There  was  no  hope  for  the  mastiff  from  the  first. 
He  was  too  ponderous  and  slow.  In  the  end,  while 
Beauty  Smith  beat  White  Fang  back  with  a  club,  the 
mastiff  was  dragged  out  by  its  owner.  Then  there 
was  a  payment  of  bets,  and  money  clinked  in  Beauty 
Smith's  hand. 

White  Fang  came  to  look  forward  eagerly  to  the 
gathering  of  the  men  around  his  pen.  It  meant  a 
fight ;  and  this  was  the  only  way  that  was  now  vouch 
safed  him  of  expressing  the  life  that  was  in  him. 
Tormented,  incited  to  hate,  he  was  kept  a  prisoner 
so  that  there  was  no  way  of  satisfying  that  hate 
except  at  the  times  his  master  saw  fit  to  put  an 
other  dog  against  him.  Beauty  Smith  had  esti 
mated  his  powers  well,  for  he  was  invariably  the 
victor.  One  day,  three  dogs  were  turned  in  upon 
him  in  succession.  Another  day,  a  full-grown  wolf, 
fresh-caught  from  the  Wild,  was  shoved  in  through 
the  door  of  the  pen.  And  on  still  another  day  two 
dogs  were  set  against  him  at  the  same  time.  This 


218  WHITE  FANG 

was  his  severest  fight,  and  although  in  the  end  he 
killed  them  both  he  was  himself  half  killed  in  doing 
it. 

In  the  fall  of  the  year,  when  the  first  snows  were 
falling  and  mush-ice  was  running  in  the  river, 
Beauty  Smith  took  passage  for  himself  and  White 
Fang  on  a  steamboat  bound  up  the  Yukon  to  Daw- 
son.  White  Fang  had  now  achieved  a  reputation  in 
the  land.  As  "The  Fighting  Wolf "  he  was  known 
far  and  wide,  and  the  cage  in  which  he  was  kept  on 
the  steamboat's  deck  was  usually  surrounded  by 
curious  men.  He  raged  and  snarled  at  them,  or  lay 
quietly  and  studied  them  with  cold  hatred.  Why 
should  he  not  hate  them  ?  He  «never  asked  himself 
the  question.  He  knew  only  hate  and  lost  himself  in 
the  passion  of  it.  Life  had  become  a  hell  to  him. 
He  had  not  been  made  for  the  close  confinement  wild 
beasts  endure  at  the  hands  of  men.  And  yet  it  was 
in  precisely  this  way  that  he  was  treated.  Men 
stared  at  him,  poked  sticks  between  the  bars  to  make 
him  snarl,  and  then  laughed  at  him. 

They  were^is_OT£iroimient,  these^maa,  and  they 
were  moulding  the  clay  of  him  into  a  more  ferocious 
thing  than  had  been  intended  by  Nature.  Neverthe 
less,  Nature  had  given  him  plasticity.  Where  many 
another  animal  would  have  died  or  had  its  spirit 
broken,  he  adjusted  himself  and  lived^andjtt  no 
exgenseof  the  spirit.  Possibly  Beauty  Smith,  arch- 


THE  REIGN  OF  HATE  219 

fiend  and  tormentor,  was  capable  of  breaking  White 
Fang's  spirit,  but  as  yet  there  were  no  signs  of  his 
succeeding. 

If  Beauty  Smith  had  in  him  a  devil,  White  Fang 
had  another ;  and  the  two  of  them  raged  against  each 
other  unceasingly.  In  the  days  before,  White  Fang 
had  had  the  wisdom  to  cower  down  and  submit  to  a 
man  with  a  club  in  his  hand;  but  this  wisdom  now 
left  him.  The  mere  sight  of  Beauty  Smith  was 
sufficient  to  send  him  into  transportsjrfjiiry.  And 
when  they  came  to  close  quarters,  and  he  had  been 
beaten  back  by  the  club,  he  went  on  growling  and 
snarling  and  showing  his  fangs.  The  last  growl 
could  never  be  extracted  from  him.  No  matter  how 
terribly  he  was  beaten,  he  had  always  another  growl ; 
and  when  Beauty  Smith  gave  up  and  withdrew,  the 
defiant  growl  followed  after  him,  or  White  Fang 
sprang  at  the  bars  of  the  cage  bellowing  his  hatred. 

When  the  steamboat  arrived  at  Dawson,  White 
Fang  went  ashore.  But  he  still  lived  a  public  life,  in 
a  cage,  surrounded  by  curious  men.  He  was  ex 
hibited  as  "The  Fighting  Wolf,"  and  men  paid  fifty 
cents  in  gold  dust  to  see  him.  He  was  given  no  rest. 
Did  he  lie  down  to  sleep,  he  was  stirred  up  by  a 
sharp  stick — so  that  the  audience  might  get  its  mon 
ey's  worth.  In  order  to  make  the  exhibition  in 
teresting,  he  was  kept  in  a  rage  most  of  the  time. 
But  worse  than  all  this,  was  the  atmosphere  in 


220  WHITE  FANG 

which  he  lived.  He  was  regarded  as  the  most  fear 
ful  of  wild  beasts,  and  this  was  borne  in  to  him 
through  the  bars  of  the  cage.  Every  word,  every 
cautious  action,  on  the  part  of  the  men,  impressed 
upon  him  his  own  terrible  ferocity.  It  was  so  much 
added  fuel  to  the  flame  of  his  fierceness.  There 
could  be  but  one  result,  and  that  was  that  his  ferocity 
fed  upon  itself  and  increased.  It  was  another  in 
stance  of  the  plasticity  of  his  clay,  of  his  capacity  for 
being  moulded  by  the  pressure  of  environment. 

In  addition  to  being  exhibited,  he  was  ;  a  pro 
fessional  fighting  animalj  At  irregular  intervals, 
whenever  a  fight  could  be  arranged,  he  was  taken 
out  of  his  cage  and  led  off  into  the  woods  a  few 
miles  from  town.  Usually  this  occurred  at  night,  so 
as  to  avoid  interference  from  the  mounted  police  of 
the  Territory.  After  a  few  hours  of  waiting,  when 
daylight  had  come,  the  audience  and  the  dog  with 
which  he  was  to  fight  arrived.  In  this  manner  it 
came  about  that  he  fought  all  sizes  and  breeds  of 
dogs.  It  was  a  savage  land,  the  men  were  savage, 
and  the  fights  were  usually  to  the  death. 

Since  White  Fang  continued  to  fight,  it  is  obvious 
that  it  was  the  other  dogs  that  died.  He  never 
knew  defeat.  His  early  training,  when  he  fought 
with  Lip-lip  and  the  whole  puppy-pack,  stood  him  in 
good  stead.  There  was  the  tenacity  with  which  he 


THE  REIGN  OF  HATE  221 

clung  to  the  earth.  No  dog  could  make  him  lose  his 
footing.  This  was  the  favorite  trick  of  the  wolf 
breeds — to  rush  in  upon  him,  either  directly  or  with 
an  unexpected  swerve,  in  the  hope  of  striking  his 
shoulder  and  overthrowing  him.  Mackenzie  hounds, 
Eskimo  and  Labrador  dogs,  huskies  and  Malemutes 
—all  tried  it  on  him,  and  all  failed.  He  was  never 
known  to  lose  his  footing.  Men  told  this  to  one 
another,  and  looked  each  time  to  see  it  happen ;  but 
White  Fang  always  disappointed  them. 

Then  there  was  his  lightning  quickness.  It  gave 
him  a  tremendous  advantage  over  his  antagonists. 
No  matter  what  their  fighting  experience,  they  had 
never  encountered  a  dog  that  moved  so  swiftly  as  he. 
Also  to  be  reckoned  with,  was  the  immediateness  of 
his  attack.  The  average  dog  was  accustomed  to  the 
preliminaries  of  snarling  and  bristling  and  growling, 
and  the  average  dog  was  knocked  off  his  feet  and 
finished  before  he  had  begun  to  fight  or  recovered 
from  his  surprise.  So  often  did  this  happen,  that  it 
became  the  custom  to  hold  White  Fang  until  the 
other  dog  went  through  its  preliminaries,  was  good 
and  ready,  and  even  made  the  first  attack. 

But  greatest  of  all  the  advantages  in  White  Fang's 
favor,  was  his  experience.  He  knew  more  about 
fighting  than  did  any  of  the  dogs  that  faced  him. 
He  had  fought  more  fights,  knew  how  to  meet  more 


WHITE  FANG 

tricks  and  methods,  and  had  more  tricks  himself, 
while  his  own  method  was  scarcely  to  be  improved 
upon. 

As  the  time  went  by,  he  had  fewer  and  fewer 
fights.  Men  despaired  of  matching  him  with  an 
equal,  and  Beauty  Smith  was  compelled  to  pit  wolves 
against  him.  These  were  trapped  by  the  Indians 
for  the  purpose,  and  a  fight  between  White  Fang 
and  a  wolf  was  always  sure  to  draw  a  crowd.  Once, 
a  full-grown  female  lynx  was  secured,  and  this  time 
White  Fang  fought  for  his  life.  Her  quickness 
matched  his;  her  ferocity  equalled  his;  while  he 
fought  with  his  fangs  alone,  and  she  fought  with 
her  sharp-clawed  feet  as  well. 

But  after  the  lynx,  all  fighting  ceased  for  White 
Fang.  There  were  no  more  animals  with  which  to 
fight — at  least,  there  was  none  considered  worthy  of 
fighting  with  him.  So  he  remained  on  exhibition 
until  spring,  when  one  Tim  Keenan,  a  faro-dealer, 
arrived  in  the  land.  With  him  came  the  first  bull 
dog  that  had  ever  entered  the  Klondike.  That  this 
dog  and  White  Fang  should  come  together  was  inevi 
table,  and  for  a  week  the  anticipated  fight  was  the 
mainspring  of  conversation  in  certain  quarters  of 
the  town. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    CLINGING  DEATH 

BEAUTY  SMITH  slipped  the  chain  from  his  neck  and 
stepped  back. 

For  once  White  Fang  did  not  make  an  immediate 
attack.  He  stood  still,  ears  pricked  forward,  alert 
and  curious,  surveying  the  strange  animal  that  faced 
him.  He  had  never  seen  such  a  dog  before.  Tim 
Keenan  shoved  the  bulldog  forward  with  a  muttered 
*  *  Go  to  it.  '  '  The  animal  waddled  toward  the  centre 
of  the  circle,  short  and  squat  and  ungainly.  He 
came  to  a  stop  and  blinked  across  at  White  Fang. 

There  were  cries  from  the  crowd  of  "Go  to  him, 
Cherokee !"  "Sick  >m,  Cherokee!"  "Eat  'mup!" 

But  Cherokee  did  not  seem  anxious  to  fight.  He 
turned  his  head  and  blinked  at  the  men  who  shouted, 
at  the  same  time  wagging  his  stump  of  a  tail  good- 
naturedly.  He  was  not  afraid,  but  merely  lazy.  Be 
sides,  it  did  not  seem  to  him  that  it  was  intended 
he  should  fight  with  the  dog  he  saw  before  him. 
He  was  not  used  to  fighting  with  that  kind  of  dog, 
and  he  was  waiting  for  them  to  bring  on  the  real 
dog. 

Tim  Keenan  stepped  in  and  bent  over  Cherokee, 

223 


224  WHITE  FANG 

fondling  him  on  both  sides  of  the  shoulders  with 
hands  that  rubbed  against  the  grain  of  the  hair  and 
that  made  slight,  pushing-forward  movements. 
These  were  so  many  suggestions.  Also,  their  effect 
was  irritating,  for  Cherokee  began  to  growl,  very 
softly,  deep  down  in  his  throat.  There  was  a  cor 
respondence  in  rhythm  between  the  growls  and  the 
movements  of  the  man's  hands.  The  growl  rose  in 
the  throat  with  the  culmination  of  each  forward- 
pushing  movement,  and  ebbed  down  to  start  up 
afresh  with  the  beginning  of  the  next  movement. 
The  end  of  each  movement  was  the  accent  of  the 
rhythm,  the  movement  ending  abruptly  and  the 
growling  rising  with  a  jerk. 

This  was  not  without  its  effect  on  White  Fang. 
The  hair  began  to  rise  on  his  neck  and  across  the 
shoulders.  Tim  Keenan  gave  a  final  shove  forward 
and  stepped  back  again.  As  the  impetus  that  car 
ried  Cherokee  forward  died  down,  he  continued  to 
go  forward  of  his  own  volition,  in  a  swift,  bow- 
legged  run.  Then  White  Fang  struck.  A  cry  of 
startled  admiration  went  up.  He  had  covered  the 
distance  and  gone  in  more  like  a  cat  than  a  dog ;  and 
with  the  same  catlike  swiftness  he  had  slashed  with 
his  fangs  anqi  leaped  clear. 

The  bulldog  was  bleeding  back  of  one  ear  from 
a  rip  in  his  thick  neck.  He  gave  no  sign,  did  not 
even  snarl,  but  turned  and  followed  after  White 


THE  CLINGING  DEATH  225 

Fang.  The  display  on  both  sides,  the  quickness  of 
the  one  and  the  steadiness  of  the  other,  had  excited 
the  partisan  spirit  of  the  crowd,  and  the  men  were 
making  new  bets  and  increasing  original  bets. 
Again,  and  yet  again,  White  Fang  sprang  in, 
slashed,  and  got  away  untouched;  and  still  his 
strange  foe  followed  after  him,  without  too  great 
haste,^not  slowly,  but  deliberately  and  determinedly, 
in  a  businesslike  sort  of  way..  There  was  purpose  in 
his  method — something  for  him  to  do  that  he  was 
intent  upon  doing  and  from  which  nothing  could  dis 
tract  him. 

His  whole  demeanor,  every  action,  was  stamped 
with  this  purpose.  It  puzzled  White  Fang.  Never 
had  he  seen  such  a  dog.  It  had  no  hair  protection. 
It  was  soft,  and  bled  easily.  There  was  no  thick 
mat  of  fur  to  baffle  White  Fang's  teeth,  as  they 
were  often  baffled  by  dogs  of  his  own  breed.  Each 
time  that  his  teeth  struck  they  sank  easily  into  the 
yielding  flesh,  while  the  animal  did  not  seem  able 
to  defend  itself.  Another  disconcerting  thing  was 
that  it  made  no  outcry,  such  as  he  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  with  the  other  dogs  he  had  fought.  Be 
yond  a  growl  or  a  grunt,  the  d«og  took  its  punish 
ment  silently.  And  never  did  it  flag  in  its  pursuit  of 
him. 

Not  that  Cherokee  was  slow.  He  could  turn  and 
whirl  swiftly  enough,  but  White  Fang  was  never 


226  WHITE  FANG 

there.  Cherokee  was  puzzled,  too.  He  had  never 
fought  before  with  a  dog  with  which  he  could  not 
close.  The  desire  to  close  had  always  been  mutual. 
But  here  was  a  dog  that  kept  at  a  distance,  dancing 
and  dodging  here  and  there  and  all  about.  And 
when  it  did  get  its  teeth  into  him,  it  did  not  hold  on 
but  let  go  instantly  and  darted  away  again. 

But  White  Fang  could  not  get  at  the  soft  under 
side  of  the  throat.  The  bulldog  stood  too  short, 
while  its  massive  jaws  were  an  added  protection. 
White  Fang  darted  in  and  out  unscathed,  while 
Cherokee's  wounds  increased.  Both  sides  of  his 
neck  and  head  were  ripped  and  slashed.  He  bled 
freely,  but  showed  no  signs  of  being  disconcerted. 
He  continued  his  plodding  pursuit,  though  once,  for 
the  moment  baffled,  he  came  to  a  full  stop  and  blinked 
at  the  men  who  looked  on,  at  the  same  time  wagging 
his  stump  of  a  tail  as  an  expression  of  his  willing 
ness  to  fight. 

In  that  moment  White  Fang  was  in  upon  him  and 
out,  in  passing  ripping  his  trimmed  remnant  of  an 
ear.  With  a  slight  manifestation  of  anger,  Cherokee 
took  up  the  pursuit  again,  running  on  the  inside  of 
the  circle  White  Fang  was  making,  and  striving  to 
fasten  his  deadly  grip  on  White  Fang's  throat.  The 
bulldog  missed  by  a  hair's-breadth,  and  cries  of 
praise  went  up  as  White  Fang  doubled  suddenly  out 
of  danger  in  the  opposite  direction. 


THE  CLINGING  DEATH  227 

The  time  went  by.  White  Fang  still  danced  on, 
dodging  and  doubling,  leaping  in  and  out,  and  ever 
inflicting  damage.  And  still  the  bulldog,  with  grim 
certitude,  toiled  after  him.  Sooner  or  later  he  would 
accomplish  his  purpose,  get  the  grip  that  would  win 
the  battle.  In  the  meantime  he  accepted  all  the 
punishment  the  other  could  deal  him.  His  tufts  of 
ears  had  become  tassels,  his  neck  and  shoulders  were 
slashed  in  a  score  of  places,  and  his  very  lips  were 
cut  and  bleeding — all  from  those  lightning  snaps  that 
were  beyond  his  foreseeing  and  guarding. 

Time  and  again  White  Fang  had  attempted  to 
knock  Cherokee  off  his  feet;  but  the  difference  in 
their  height  was  too  great.  Cherokee  was  too  squat, 
too  close  to  the  ground.  White  Fang  tried  the  trick 
once  too  often.  The  chance  came  in  one  of  his  quick 
doublings  and  counter-circlings.  He  caught  Chero 
kee  with  head  turned  away  as  he  whirled  more 
slowly.  His  shoulder  was  exposed.  White  Fang 
drove  in  upon  it;  but  his  own  shoulder  was  high 
above,  while  he  struck  with  such  force  that  his  mo 
mentum  carried  him  on  across  over  the  other's  body. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  fighting  history,  men  saw 
White  Fang  lose  his  footing.  His  body  turned  a 
half-somersault  in  the  air,  and  he  would  have  landed 
on  his  back  had  he  not  twisted,  catlike,  still  in  the 
air,  in  the  effort  to  bring  his  feet  to  the  earth.  As  it 
was  he  struck  heavily  on  his  side.  The  next  instant 


228  WHITE  FANG 

he  was  on  his  feet,  but  in  that  instant  Cherokee's 
teeth  closed  on  his  throat. 

It  was  not  a  good  grip,  being  too  low  down  to 
ward  the  chest ;  but  Cherokee  held  on.  White  Fang 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  tore  wildly  around,  trying  to 
shake  off  the  bulldog's  body.  It  made  him  frantic, 
this  clinging,  dragging  weight.  It  bound  his  move 
ments,  restricted  his  freedom.  It  was  like  a  trap, 
and  all  his  instinct  resented  it  and  revolted  against 
it.  It  was  a  mad  revolt.  For  several  minutes  he 
was  to  all  intents  insane.  The  basic  life  that  was  in 
him  took  charge  of  him.  The  will  to  exist  of  his 
body  surged  over  him.  He  was  dominated  by  this 
mere  flesh-love  of  life.  All  intelligence  was  gone. 
It  was  as  though  he  had  no  brain.  His  reason  was 
unseated  by  the  blind  yearning  of  the  flesh  to  exist 
and  move,  at  all  hazards  to  move,  to  continue  to 
move,  for  movement  was  the  expression  of  its  ex 
istence. 

Bound  and  round  he  went,  whirling  and  turning 
and  reversing,  trying  to  shake  off  the  fifty-pound 
weight  that  dragged  at  his  throat.  The  bulldog  did 
little  but  keep  his  grip.  Sometimes,  and  rarely,  he 
managed  to  get  his  feet  to  the  earth  and  for  a  mo 
ment  to  brace  himself  against  White  Fang.  But  the 
next  moment  his  footing  would  be  lost  and  he  would 
be  dragging  around  in  the  whirl  of  one  of  White 


THE  CLINGING  DEATH  229 

Fang's  mad  gyrations.  Cherokee  identified  himself 
with  his  instinct.  He  knew  that  he  was  doing:  the 
right  thing  by  holding  on,  and  there  came  to  him  cer 
tain  blissful  thrills  of  satisfaction.  At  such  mo 
ments  he  even  closed  his  eyes  and  allowed  his  body  to 
be  hurled  hither  and  thither,  willy-nilly,  careless  of 
any  hurt  that  might  thereby  come  to  it.  That  did 
not  count.  The  grip  was  the  thing,  and  the  grip  he 
kept. 

White  Fang  ceased  only  when  he  had  tired  himself 
out.  He  could  do  nothing  and  he  could  not  under 
stand.  Never,  in  all  his  fighting,  had  this  thing 
happened.  The  dogs  he  had  fought  with  did  not 
fight  that  way.  With  them  it  was  snap  and  slash 
and  get  away,  snap  and  slash  and  get  away.  He 
lay  partly  on  his  side,  panting  for  breath.  Chero 
kee,  still  holding  his  grip,  urged  against  him,  try 
ing  to  get  him  over  entirely  on  his  side.  White 
Fang  resisted,  and  he  could  feel  the  jaws  shifting 
their  grip,  slightly  relaxing  and  coming  together 
again  in  a  chewing  movement.  Each  shift  brought 
the  grip  closer  in  to  his  throat.  The  bulldog's 
method  was  to  hold  what  he  had,  and  when  opportu 
nity  favored  to  work  in  for  more.  Opportunity  fa 
vored  when  White  Fang  remained  quiet.  When 
White  Fang  struggled,  Cherokee  was  content  merely 
to  hold  on. 


230  WHITE  FANCJ 

The  bulging  back  of  Cherokee 's  neck  was  the  only 
portion  of  his  body  that  White  Fang's  teeth  could 
reach.  He  got  hold  toward  the  base  where  the  neck 
comes  out  from  the  shoulders;  but  he  did  not  know 
\Jjhe  chewing  method  of  fighting,  nor  were  his  jaws 
adapted  to  it.  He  spasmodically  ripped  and  tore 
with  his  fangs  for  a  space.  Then  a  change  in  their 
position  diverted  him.  The  bulldog  had  managed 
to  roll  him  over  on  his  back,  and  still  hanging  on  to 
his  throat,  was  on  top  of  him.  Like  a  cat,  White 
Fang  bowed  his  hind-quarters  in,  and,  with  his  feet 
digging  into  his  enemy's  abdomen  above  him,  he  be 
gan  to  claw  with  long,  tearing  strokes.  Cherokee 
might  well  have  been  disembowelled  had  he  not 
quickly  pivoted  on  his  grip  and  got  his  body  off  of 
White  Fang's  and  at  right  angles  to  it. 

There  was  no  escaping  that  grip.  It  was  like  Fate 
itself,  and  was  inexorable.  Slowly  it  shifted  up 
along  the  jugular.  All  that  saved  White  Fang  from 
death  was  the  loose  skin  of  his  neck  and  the  thick  fur 
that  covered  it.  This  served  to  form  a  large  roll  in 
Cherokee's  mouth,  the  fur  of  which  well-nigh  defied 
his  teeth.  But  bit  by  bit,  whenever  the  chance  of 
fered,  he  was  getting  more  of  the  loose  skin  and  fur 
in  his  mouth.  The  result  was  that  he  was  slowly 
throttling  White  Fang.  The  latter 's  breath  was 
drawn  with  greater  and  greater  difficulty  as  the  mo 
ments  went  by. 


THE  CLINGING  DEATH  231 

It  began  to  look  as  though  the  battle  were  over. 
The  backers  of  Cherokee  waxed  jubilant  and  offered 
ridiculous  odds.  White  Fang's  backers  were  corre 
spondingly  depressed  and  refused  bets  of  ten  to  one 
and  twenty  to  one,  though  one  man  was  rash  enough 
to  close  a  wager  of  fifty  to  one.  This  man  was 
Beauty  Smith.  He  took  a  step  into  the  ring  and 
pointed  his  finger  at  White  Fang.  Then  be  began 
to  laugh  derisively  and  scornfully.  This  produced 
the  desired  effect.  White  Fang  went  wild  with  rage. 
He  called  up  his  reserves  of  strength  and  gained 
his  feet.  As  he  struggled  around  the  ring,  the  fifty 
pounds  of  his  foe  ever  dragging  on  his  throat,  his 
anger  passed  on  into  panic.  The  basic  life  of  him 
dominated  him  again,  and  his  intelligence  fled  before 
the  will  of  his  flesh  to  live.  Round  and  round  and 
back  again,  stumbling  and  falling  and  rising,  even 
uprearing  at  times  on  his  hind-legs  and  lifting  his  foe 
clear  of  the  earth,  he  struggled  vainly  to  shake  off 
the  clinging  death. 

At  last  he  fell,  toppling  backward,  exhausted ;  and 
the  bulldog  promptly  shifted  his  grip,  getting  in 
closer,  mangling  more  and  more  of  the  fur-folded 
flesh,  throttling  White  Fang  more  severely  than  ever. 
Shouts  of  applause  went  up  for  the  victor,  and  there 
were  many  cries  of  ' i  Cherokee ! "  *  '  Cherokee ! "  To 
this  Cherokee  responded  by  vigorous  wagging  of  the 
stump  of  his  tail.  But  the  clamor  of  approval  did 


232  WHITE  FANG 

not  distract  him.  There  was  no  sympathetic  rela 
tion  between  his  tail  and  his  massive  jaws.  The  one 
might  wag,  but  the  others  held  their  terrible  grip  on 
White  Fang's  throat. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  a  diversion  came  to 
the  spectators.  There  was  a  jingle  of  bells.  Dog- 
mushers'  cries  were  heard.  Everybody,  save 
Beauty  Smith,  looked  apprehensively,  the  fear  of  the 
police  strong  upon  them.  But  they  saw,  up  the  trail, 
and  not  down,  two  men  running  with  sleds  and  dogs. 
They  were  evidently  coming  down  the  creek  from 
some  prospecting  trip.  At  sight  of  the  crowd  they 
stopped  their  dogs  and  came  over  and  joined  it? 
curious  to  see  the  cause  of  the  excitement.  The  dog- 
musher  wore  a  mustache,  but  the  other,  a  taller  and 
younger  man,  was  smooth-shaven,  his  skin  rosy  from 
the  pounding  of  his  blood  and  the  running  in  the 
frosty  air. 

White  Fang  had  practically  ceased  struggling. 
Now  and  again  he  resisted  spasmodically  and  to  no 
purpose.  He  could  get  little  air,  and  that  little  grew 
less  and  less  under  the  merciless  grip  that  ever  tight 
ened.  In  spite  of  his  armor  of  fur,  the  great  vein 
of  his  throat  would  have  long  since  have  been  torn 
open,  had  not  the  first  grip  of  the  bulldog  been  so 
low  down  as  to  be  practically  on  the  chest.  It  had 
taken  Cherokee  a  long  time  to  shift  that  grip  up- 


THE  CLINGING  DEATH  233 

ward,  and  this  had  also  tended  further  to  clog  his 
jaws  with  fur  and  skin-fold. 

In  the  meantime,  the^  abj^smal_brute  in  Beauty 
Smith  had  been  rising  up  ^nto  his  brain  and  master 
ing  the  small  bit  of  sanity  that  he  possessed  at  best. 
When  he  saw  White  Fang's  eyes  beginning  to  glaze, 
he  knew  beyond  doubt  that  the  fight  was  lost.  Then 
he  broke  loose.  He  sprang  upon  White  Fang  and 
began  savagely  to  kick  him.  There  were  hisses  from 
the  crowd  and  cries  of  protest,  but  that  was  all. 
While  this  went  on,  and  Beauty  Smith  continued  to 
kick  White  Fang,  there  was  a  commotion  in  the 
crowd.  The  tall  young  newcomer  was  forcing  his 
way  through,  shouldering  men  right  and  left  without 
ceremony  or  gentleness.  When  he  broke  through 
into  the  ring,  Beauty  Smith  was  just  in  the  act  of  de 
livering  another  kick.  All  his  weight  was  on  one 
foot,  and  he  was  in  a  state  of  unstable  equilibrium. 
At  that  moment  the  newcomer 's  fist  landed  a  smash 
ing  blow  full  in  his  face.  Beauty  Smith's  remaining 
leg  left  the  ground,  and  his  whole  body  seemed  to 
lift  into  the  air  as  he  turned  over  backward  and 
struck  the  snow.  The  newcomer  turned  upon  the 
crowd. 

' '  You  cowards ! ' '  he  cried.     ' '  You  beasts ! ' ' 
He  was  in  a  rage  himself — a  sane  rage.     His  gray 
eyes  seemed  metallic  and  steel-like  as  they  flashed 


234  WHITE  FANG 

upon  the  crowd.  Beauty  Smith  regained  his  feet 
and  came  toward  him,  sniffling  and  cowardly.  The 
newcomer  did  not  understand.  He  did  not  know 
how  abject  a  coward  the  other  was,  and  thought  he 
was  coming  back  intent  on  fighting.  So,  with  a 
"You  beast  I"  he  smashed  Beauty  Smith  over  back 
ward  with  a  second  blow  in  the  face.  Beauty  Smith 
decided  that  the  snow  was  the  safest  place  for  him, 
and  lay  where  he  had  fallen,  making  no  effort  to 
get  up. 

"Come  on,  Matt,  lend  a  hand/'  the  newcomer 
called  to  the  dog-musher,  who  had  followed  him  into 
the  ring. 

Both  men  bent  over  the  dogs.  Matt  took  hold  of 
White  Fang,  ready  to  pull  when  Cherokee's  jaws 
should  be  loosened.  This  the  younger  man  endeav 
ored  to  accomplish  by  clutching  the  bulldog's  jaws 
in  his  hands  and  trying  to  spread  them.  It  was  a 
vain  undertaking.  As  he  pulled  and  tugged  and 
wrenched,  he  kept  exclaiming  with  every  expulsion 
of  breath,  "Beasts!" 

The  crowd  began  to  grow  unruly,  and  some  of  the 
men  were  protesting  against  the  spoiling  of  the 
sport;  but  they  were  silenced  when  the  newcomer 
lifted  his  head  from  his  work  for  a  moment  and 
glared  at  them. 

1  i  You  damn  beasts ! "  he  finally  exploded,  and  went 
back  to  his  task. 


THE  CLINGING  DEATH  235 

' 'It's  no  use,  Mr.  Scott,  you  can't  break  'm  apart 
that  way,"  Matt  said  at  last. 

The  pair  paused  and  surveyed  the  locked  dogs. 

' 4  Ain  't  bleedin '  much, ' '  Matt  announced.  ' '  Ain  't 
got  all  the  way  in  yet." 

"But  he's  liable  to  any  moment,"  Scott  answered. 
"There,  did  you  see  that!  He  shifted  his  grip  in 
a  bit." 

The  younger  man's  excitement  and  apprehension 
for  White  Fang  was  growing.  He  struck  Cherokee 
about  the  head  savagely  again  and  again.  But  that 
did  not  loosen  the  jaw.  Cherokee  wagged  the 
stump  of  his  tail  in  advertisement  that  he  understood 
the  meaning  of  the  blows,  but  that  he  knew  he  was 
himself  in  the  right  and  only  doing  his  duty  by  keep 
ing  his  grip. 

"Won't  some  of  you  help?"  Scott  cried  desper 
ately  at  the  crowd. 

But  no  help  was  offered.  Instead,  the  crowd  began 
sarcastically  to  cheer  him  on  and  showered  him  with 
facetious  advice. 

'  '  You  '11  have  to  get  a  pry^ ' '  Matt  counselled. 

The  other  reached  into  the  holster  at  his  hip,  drew 
his  revolver,  and  tried  to  thrust  its  muzzle  between 
the  bulldog's  jaws.  He  shoved,  and  shoved  hard, 
till  the  grating  of  the  steel  against  the  locked  teeth 
could  be  distinctly  heard.  Both  men  were  on  their 
knees,  bending  over  the  dogs.  Tim  Keenan  strode 


236  WHITE  FA.NG 

into  the  ring.  He  paused  beside  Scott  and  touched 
him  on  the  shoulder,  saying  ominously : 

6 ' Don't  break  them  teeth,  stranger. " 

"Then  I'll  break  his  neck,"  Scott  retorted,  con 
tinuing  his  shoving  and  wedging  with  the  revolver 
muzzle. 

"I  said  don't  break  them  teeth,"  the  faro-dealer 
repeated  more  ominously  than  before. 

But  if  it  was  a  bluff  he  intended,  it  did  not  work. 
Scott  never  desisted  in  his  efforts,  though  he  looked 
up  coolly  and  asked : 

"Your  dog?" 

The  faro-dealer  grunted. 

*  '  Then  get  in  here  and  break  this  grip. ' ' 

"Well,  stranger,"  the  other  drawled  irritatingly, 
"I  don't  mind  telling  you  that's  something  I  ain't 
worked  out  for  myself.  I  don't  know  how  to  turn 
the  trick." 

"Then  get  out  of  the  way,"  was  the  reply,  "and 
don't  bother  me.  I'm  busy." 

Tim  Keenan  continued  standing  over  him,  but 
Scott  took  no  further  notice  of  his  presence.  He  had 
managed  to  get  the  muzzle  in  between  the  jaws  on 
one  side  and  was  trying  to  get  it  out  between  the 
jaws  on  the  other  side.  .  This  accomplished,  he  pried 
gently  and  carefully,  loosening  the  jaws  a  bit  at  a 
time,  while  Matt,  a  bit  at  a  time,  extricated  White 
Fang's  mangled  neck. 


THE  CLINGING  DEATH  237 

"Stand  by  to  receive  your  dog,"  was  Scott's  per 
emptory  order  to  Cherokee 's  owner. 

The  faro-dealer  stooped  down  obediently  and  got  a 
firm  hold  on  Cherokee. 

"Now,"  Scott  warned,  giving  the  final  pry. 

The  dogs  were  drawn  apart,  the  bulldog  struggling 
vigorously. 

"Take  him  away,"  Scott  commanded,  and  Tim 
Keenan  dragged  Cherokee  back  into  the  crowd. 

White  Fang  made  several  ineffectual  efforts  to  get 
up.  Once  he  gained  his  feet,  but  his  legs  were  too 
weak  to  sustain  him,  and  he  slowly  wilted  and  sank 
back  into  the  snow.  His  eyes  were  half  closed,  and 
the  surface  of  them  was  glassy.  His  jaws  were 
apart,  and  through  them  the  tongue  protruded, 
draggled  and  limp.  To  all  appearances  he  looked 
like  a  dog  that  had  been  strangled  to  death.  Matt 
examined  him. 

"Just  about  all  in,"  he  announced;  "but  he's 
breathin '  all  right. ' ' 

Beauty  Smith  had  regained  his  feet  and  come  over 
to  look  at  White  Fang. 

"Matt,  how  much  is  a  good  sled-dog  worth?" 
Scott  asked. 

The  dog-musher,  still  on  his  knees  and  stooped 
over  White  Fang,  calculated  for  a  moment. 

"Three  hundred  dollars,"  he  answered. 

"And  how  much  for  one  that's  all  chewed  up  like 


238  WHITE  FANG 

this  one?"  Scott  asked,  nudging  White  Fang  with 
his  foot. 

"Half  of  that,"  was  the  dog-musher's  judgment. 

Scott  turned  upon  Beauty  Smith. 

"Did  you  hear,  Mr.  Beast?  I'm  going  to  take 
your  dog  from  you,  and  I  'm  going  to  give  you  a  hun 
dred  and  fifty  for  him. ' ' 

He  opened  his  pocket-book  and  counted  out  the 
bills. 

Beauty  Smith  put  his  hands  behind  his  back,  re 
fusing  to  touch  the  proffered  money. 

"I  ain't  a-sellin',"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes  you  are,"  the  other  assured  him.  "Be 
cause  I'm  buying.  Here's  your  money.  The  dog's 
mine. ' ' 

Beauty  Smith,  his  hands  still  behind  him,  began 
to  back  away. 

Scott  sprang  toward  him,  drawing  his  fist  back  to 
strike.  Beauty  Smith  cowered  down  in  anticipation 
of  the  blow. 

"I  've  got  my  rights, ' '  he  whimpered. 

"You've  forfeited  your  rights  to  own  that  dog," 
was  the  rejoinder.  "Are  you  going  to  take  the 
money?  or  do  I  have  to  hit  you  again?" 

"All  right,"  Beauty  Smith  spoke  up  with  the  alac 
rity  of  fear.  ' '  But  I  take  the  money  under  protest, ' ' 
he  added.  "The  dog's  a  mint.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
be  robbed.  A  man 's  got  his  rights. ' ' 


THE  CLINGING  DEATH  239 

"  Correct, "  Scott  answered,  passing  the  money 
over  to  him.  "A  man's  got  his  rights.  But  you're 
not  a  man.  You're  a  beast. " 

"Wait  till  I  get  back  to  Dawson,"  Beauty  Smith 
threatened.  *  *  I  '11  have  the  law  on  you. ' ' 

"If  you  open  your  mouth  when  you  get  back  to 
Dawson,  I'll  have  you  run  out  of  town.  Under 
stand?" 

Beauty  Smith  replied  with  a  grunt. 

"Understand?"  the  other  thundered  with  abrupt 
fierceness. 

"Yes,"  Beauty  Smith  grunted,  shrinking  away. 

"Yes  what?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  Beauty  Smith  snarled. 

'  '  Look  out !  He  '11  bite ! ' '  some  one  shouted,  and  a 
guffaw  of  laughter  went  up. 

Scott  turned  his  back  on  him,  and  returned  to  help 
the  dog-musher,  who  was  working  over  White  Fang. 

Some  of  the  men  were  already  departing;  others 
stood  in  groups,  looking  on  and  talking.  Tim  Kee- 
nan  joined  one  of  the  groups. 

' '  Who 's  that  mug  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Weedon  Scott,"  some  one  answered. 

"And  who  in  hell  is  Weedon  Scott?"  the  faro- 
dealer  demanded. 

"Oh,  one  of  them  crack-a-jack  mining  experts. 
He's  in  with  all  the  big  bugs.  If  you  want  to  keep 
out  of  trouble,  you'll  steer  clear  of  him,  that's  my 


240 

talk.    He's  all  himky  with  the  officials.    The  Gold 
Commissioner's  a  special  pal  of  his." 

"I  thought  he  must  be  somebody,"  was  the  faro- 
dealer's  comment.  " That's  why  I  kept  my  hands 
off  en  him  at  the  start." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   INDOMITABLE 

"IT'S  hopeless, "  Weedon  Scott  confessed. 

He  sat  on  the  step  of  his  cabin  and  stared  at  the 
dog-musher,  who  responded  with  a  shrug  that  was 
equally  hopeless. 

Together  they  looked  at  White  Fang  at  the  end 
of  his  stretched  chain,  bristling,  snarling,  ferocious, 
straining  to  get  at  the  sled-dogs.  Having  received 
sundry  lessons  from  Matt,  said  lessons  being  im 
parted  by  means  of  a  club,  the  sled-dogs  had  learned 
to  leave  White  Fang  alone ;  and  even  when  they  were 
lying  down  at  a  distance,  apparently  oblivious  of  his 
existence. 

"It's  a  wolf  and  there's  no  taming  it,"  Weedon 
Scott  announced. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  Matt  objected. 
' '  Might  be  a  lot  of  dog  in  'm  for  all  you  can  tell.  But 
there's  one  thing  I  know  sure,  an'  that  there's  no 
gettin '  away  from. ' ' 

The  dog-musher  paused  and  nodded  his  head  con 
fidently  at  Moosehide  Mountain. 

"Well,  don't  be  a  miser  with  what  you  know," 

241 


242  WHITE  FANG 

Scott  said  sharply,  after  waiting  a  suitable  length  of 
time.     '  <  Spit  it  out.    What  is  it  f " 

The  dog-musher  indicated  White  Fang  with  a 
backward  thrust  of  his  thumb. 

4  *  Wolf  or  dog,  it's  all  the  same — he's  ben  tamed 
a  'ready. " 

"No!" 

"I  tell  you  yes,  an'  broke  to  harness.  Look  close 
there.  D'ye  see  them  marks  across  the  chest?" 

"You're  right,  Matt.  He  was  a  sled-dog  before 
Beauty  Smith  got  hold  of  him." 

"An'  there's  not  much  reason  against  his  bein'  a 
sled-dog  again. ' ' 

'  *  What  d  'ye  think  1 ' '  Scott  queried  eagerly.  Then 
the  hope  died  down  as  he  added,  shaking  his  head, 
"We've  had  him  two  weeks  now,  and  if  anything, 
he's  wilder  than  ever  at  the  present  moment." 

*  '  Give  'm  a  chance, ' '  Matt  counselled.  l '  Turn  'm 
loose  for  a  spell." 

The  other  looked  at  him  incredulously. 

"Yes,"  Matt  went  on,  "I  know  you've  tried  to, 
but  you  didn't  take  a  club." 

"You  try  it  then." 

The  dog-musher  secured  a  club  and  went  over  to 
the  chained  animal.  -White  Fang  watched  the  club 
after  the  manner  of  a  caged  lion  watching  the  whip 
of  its  trainer. 

"See  'm  keep  his  eye  on  that  club,"  Matt  said. 


THE  INDOMITABLE  243 

"That's  a  good  sign.  He's  no  fool.  Don't  dast 
tackle  me  so  long  as  I  got  that  club  handy.  He 's  not 
clean  crazy,  sure. ' ' 

As  the  man's  hand  approached  his  neck,  White 
Fang  bristled  and  snarled  and  crouched  down.  But 
while  he  eyed  the  approaching  hand,  he  at  the  same 
time  contrived  to  keep  track  of  the  club  in  the  other 
hand,  suspended  threateningly  above  him.  Matt 
unsnapped  the  chain  from  the  collar  and  stepped 
back. 

White  Fang  could  scarcely  realize  that  he  was 
free.  Many  months  had  gone  by  since  he  passed 
into  the  posession  of  Beauty  Smith,  and  in  all  that 
period  he  had  never  known  a  moment  of  freedom 
except  at  the  times  he  had  been  loosed  to  fight  with 
other  dogs.  Immediately  after  such  fights  he  had 
been  imprisoned  again. 

He  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it.    Perhaps! 
some  new  deviltry  of  the  gods  was  about  to  be  per 
petrated  on  him.     He  walked  slowly  and  cautiously, 
prepared  to  be  assailed  at  any  moment.    He  did  not 

know  what  to  do,  it  was  all  so  unprecedented.    He j 

took  the  precaution  to  sheer  off  from  the  two  watch 
ing  gods,  and  walked  carefully  to  the  corner  of  the 
cabin.  Nothing  happened.  He  was  plainly  per 
plexed,  and  he  came  back  again,  pausing  a  dozen  feet 
away  and  regarding  the  two  men  intently. 

"Won't  he  run  awav?"  his  new  owner  asked. 


244  WHITE  FANG 

Matt  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Got  to  take  a 
gamble.  Only  way  to  find  out  is  to  find  out. " 

'  i  Poor  devil, ' '  Scott  murmured  pityingly.  '  *  What 
he  needs  is  some  show  of  human  kindness, "  he  added, 
turning  and  going  into  the  cabin. 

He  came  out  with  a  piece  of  meat,  which  he  tossed 
to  White  Fang.  He  sprang  away  from  it,  and  from 
a  distance  studied  it  suspiciously. 

"Hi-yu,  Major!"  Matt  shouted  warningly,  but  too 
late. 

Major  had  made  a  spring  for  the  meat.  At  the 
instant  his  jaws  closed  on  it,  White  Fang  struck  him. 
He  was  overthrown.  Matt  rushed  in,  but  quicker 
than  he  was  White  Fang.  Major  staggered  to  his 
feet,  but  the  blood  spouting  from  his  throat  reddened 
the  snow  in  a  widening  path. 

' l  It  's  too  bad,  but  it  served  him  right, ' '  Scott  said 
hastily. 

But  Matt 's  foot  had  already  started  on  its  way  to 
kick  White  Fang.  There  was  a  leap,  a  flash  of  teeth, 
a  sharp  exclamation.  White  Fang,  snarling  fiercely, 
scrambled  backward  for  several  yards,  while  Matt 
stooped  and  investigated  his  leg. 

"He  got  me  all  right,"  he  announced,  pointing  to 
the  torn  trousers  and  undercloths,  and  the  growing 
stain  of  red. 

"I  told  you  it  was  hopeless,  Matt,"  Scott  said  in  a 
discouraged  voice.  "I've  thought  about  it  off  and 


THE  INDOMITABLE  245 

on,  while  not  wanting  to  think  of  it.    But  we  've  come 
to  it  now.     It 's  the  only  thing  to  do. ' ' 

As  he  talked,  with  reluctant  movements  he  drew 
his  revolver,  threw  open  the  cylinder,  and  assured 
himself  of  its  contents. 

"Look  here,  Mr.   Scott,"  Matt  objected;  "that 
dog 's  ben  through  hell.    You  can 't  expect  'm  to  come 
out  a  white  an '  shining  angel.     Give  'm  time. ' ' 
"Look  at  Major, "  the  other  rejoined. 
The  dog-musher  surveyed  the  stricken  dog.    He 
had  sunk  down  on  the  snow  in  the  circle  of  his  blood, 
and  was  plainly  in  the  last  gasp. 

"Served  'm  right.  You  said  so  yourself,  Mr. 
Scott.  He  tried  to  take  White  Fang's  meat,  an*  he's 
dead-O.  That  was  to  be  expected.  I  wouldn't  give 
two  whoops  in  hell  for  a  dog  that  wouldn  't  fight  for 
his  own  meat. ' ' 

"But  look  at  yourself,  Matt.  It's  all  right  about 
the  dogs,  but  we  must  draw  the  line  somewhere. ' ' 

"Served  me  right,"  Matt  argued  stubbornly. 
"What  'd  I  want  to  kick  'm  for?  You  said  yourself 
he'd  done  right.  Then  I  had  no  right  to  kick  'm." 

"It  would  be  a  mercy  to  kill  him,"  Scott  insisted. 
"He's  untamable." 

"Now  look  here,  Mr.  Scott,  give  the  poor  devil  a 
fightin'  chance.  He  ain't  had  no  chance  yet.  He's 
just  come  through  hell,  an '  this  is  the  first  time  he 's 
ben  loose.  Give  'm  a  fair  chance,  an*  if  he  don't 


246  WHITE  FANG 

deliver   the   goods,   I'll  kill    'm   myself.     There !" 

"•God  knows  I  don't  want  to  kill  him  or  have  him 
killed, "  Scott  answered,  putting  away  the  revolver. 
"We'll  let  him  run  loose  and  see  what  kindness  can 
do  for  him.  And  here's  a  try  at  it." 

He  walked  over  to  White  Fang  and  began  talking 
to  him  gently  and  soothingly. 

"Better  have  a  club  handy,"  Matt  warned. 

Scott  shook  his  head  and  went  on  trying  to  win 
White  Fang's  confidence. 

White  Fang  was  suspicious.  Something  was  im 
pending.  He  had  killed  this  god's  dog,  bitten  his 
companion  god,  and  what  else  was  to  be  expected 
than  some  terrible  punishment!  But  in  the  face  of 
it  he  was  indomitable.  He  bristled  and  showed  his 
teeth,  his  eyes  vigilant,  his  whole  body  wary  and 
prepared  for  anything.  The  god  had  no  club,  so  he 
suffered  him  to  approach  quite  near.  The  god's 
hand  had  come  out  and  was  descending  on  his  head. 
White  Fang  shrank  together  and  grew  tense  as  he 
crouched  under  it.  Here  was  danger,  some  treach 
ery  or  something.  He  knew  the  hands  of  the  gods, 
their  proved  mastery,  their  cunning  to  hurt.  Be 
sides,  there  was  his  old  antipathy  to  being  touched. 
He  snarled  more  menacingly,  crouched  still  lower, 
and  still  the  hand  descended.  He  did  not  want  to 
bite  the  hand,  and  he  endured  the  peril  of  it  until  his 


THE  INDOMITABLE  247 

instinct  surged  up  in  him,  mastering  him  with  its  in 
satiable  yearning  for  life. 

Weedon  Scott  had  believed  that  he  was  quick 
enough  to  avoid  any  snap  or  slash.  But  he  had  yet 
to  learn  the  remarkable  quickness  of  White  Fang, 
who  struck  with  the  certainty  and  swiftness  of  a 
coiled  snake. 

Scott  cried  out  sharply  with  surprise,  catching  his 
torn  hand  and  holding  it  tightly  in  his  other  hand. 
Matt  uttered  a  great  oath  and  sprang  to  his  side. 
White  Fang  crouched  down  and  backed  away,  bris 
tling,  showing  his  fangs,  his  eyes  malignant  with 
menace.  Now  he  could  expect  a  beating  as  fearful 
as  any  he  had  received  from  Beauty  Smith. 

" Here!  What  are  you  doing ?"  Scott  cried  sud 
denly. 

Matt  had  dashed  into  the  cabin  and  come  out  with 
a  rifle. 

"Nothing"  he  said  slowly,  with  a  careless  calm- 
ness  that  was  assumed;  "only  goin'  to  keep  that 
promise  I  made.  I  reckon  it 's  up  to  me  to  kill  ?m  as 
I  said  Pd  do." 

"No  you  don't!" 

' '  Yes  I  do.    Watch  me." 

As  Matt  had  pleaded  for  White  Fang  when  he  had 
been  bitten,  it  was  now  Weedon  Scott's  turn  to 
plead. 


248  WHITE  FANG 

"You  said  to  give  him  a  chance.  Well,  give  it  to 
him.  We've  only  just  started,  and  we  can't  quit  at 
the  beginning.  It  served  me  right,  this  time.  And 
— look  at  him! " 

White  Fang,  near  the  corner  of  the  cabin  and  forty 
feet  away,  was  snarling  with  blood-curdling  vicious- 
ness,  not  at  Scott,  but  at  the  dog-musher. 

"Well,  I'll  be  everlastin 'ly  gosh-swoggled ! "  was 
the  dog-musher 's  expression  of  astonishment. 

"Look  at  the  intelligence  of  him,"  Scott  went  on 
hastily.  "He  knows  the  meaning  of  firearms  as  well 
as  you  do.  He's  got  intelligence,  and  we've  got  to 
give  that  intelligence  a  chance.  Put  up  that  gun. ' ' 

"All  right,  I'm  willin',"  Matt  agreed,  leaning  the 
rifle  against  the  woodpile. 

"But  will  you  look  at  that!"  he  exclaimed  the  next 
moment. 

White  Fang  had  quieted  down  and  ceased  snarling. 

4  *  This  is  worth  investigatin '.     Watch. ' ' 

Matt  reached  for  the  rifle,  and  at  the  same  mo 
ment  White  Fang  snarled.  He  stepped  away  from 
the  rifle,  and  White  Fang's  lifted  lips  descended,  cov 
ering  his  teeth. 

Matt  took  the  rifle  and  began  slowly  to  raise  it  to 
his  shoulder.  White  Fang's  snarling  began  with  the 
movement,  and  increased  as  the  movement  ap 
proached  its  culmination.  But  the  moment  before 
the  rifle  came  to  a  level  with  him,  he  leaped  sidewise 


THE  INDOMITABLE  249 

behind  the  corner  of  the  cabin.  Matt  stood  staring 
along  the  sights  at  the  empty  space  of  snow  which 
had  been  occupied  by  White  Fang. 

The  dog-nmsher  put  the  rifle  down  solemnly,  then 
turned  and  looked  at  his  employer. 

"I  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Scott.  That  dog's  too 
intelligent  to  kill." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  LOVE-MASTEE 

As  White  Fang  watched  Weedon  Scott  approach, 
he  bristled  and  snarled  to  advertise  that  he  would 
not  submit  to  punishment.  Twenty-four  hours  had 
passed  since  he  had  slashed  open  the  hand  that  was 
now  bandaged  and  held  up  by  a  sling  to  keep  the 
blood  out  of  it.  In  the  past  White  Fang  had  experi 
enced  delayed  punishments,  and  he  apprehended  that 
such  a  one  was  about  to»befall  him.  How  could  it 
be  otherwise?  He  had  committed  what  was  to  him 
sacrilege,  sunk  his  fangs  in  the  holy  flesh  of  a  god, 
and  of  a  white-skinned  superior  god  at  that.  In  the 
nature  of  things,  and  of  intercourse  with  gods,  some 
thing  terrible  awaited  him. 

The  god  sat  down  several  feet  away.  White 
Fang  could  see  nothing  dangerous  in  that.  When 
the  gods  administered  punishment  they  stood  on 
their  legs.  Besides,  this  god  had  no  club,  no  whip, 
no  firearm.  And  furthermore,  he  himself  was  free. 
No  chain  nor  stick  bound  him.  He  could  escape  into 
safety  while  the  god  was  scrambling  to  his  feet.  In 
the  meantime  he  would  wait  and  see. 

The  god  remained  quiet,  made  no  movement ;  and 

250 


THE  LOVE-MASTER  251 

White  Fang's  snarl  slowly  dwindled  to  a  growl  that 
ebbed  down  in  his  throat  and  ceased.  Then  the  god 
spoke,  and  at  the  first  sound  of  his  voice,  the  hair 
rose  on  White  Fang's  neck  and  the  growl  rushed  up 
in  his  throat.  But  the  god  made  no  hostile  move 
ment  and  went  on  calmly  talking.  For  a  time  White 
Fang  growled  in  unison  with  him,  a  correspondence 
of  rhythm  being  established  between  growl  and 
voice.  But  the  god  talked  on  interminably.  He 
talked  to  White  Fang  as  White  Fang  had  never  been 
talked  to  before.  He  talked  softly  and  soothingly, 
with  a  gentleness  that  somehow,  somewhere,  touched 
White  Fang.  In  spite  of  himself  and  all  the  prick 
ing  warnings  of  his  instinct,  White  Fang  began  to 
have  confidence  in  this  god.  He  had  a  feeling  of  se 
curity  that  was  belied  by  all  his  experience  with  men. 

After  a  long  time,  the  god  got  up  and  went  into 
the  cabin.  White  Fang  scanned  him  apprehensively 
when  he  came  out.  He  had  neither  whip  nor  club 
nor  weapon.  Nor  was  his  injured  hand  behind  his 
back  hiding  something.  He  sat  down  as  before,  in 
the  same  spot,  several  feet  away.  He  held  out  a 
small  piece  of  meat.  White  Fang  pricked  up  his 
ears  and  investigated  it  suspiciously,  managing  to 
look  at  the  same  time  both  at  the  meat  and  the  god, 
alert  for  any  overt  act,  his  body  tense  and  ready  to 
spring  away  at  the  first  sign  of  hostility. 

Still  the  punishment  delayed.     The  god  merely 


252  WHITE  FANG 

held  near  to  his  nose  a  piece  of  meat.  And  about 
the  meat  there  seemed  nothing  wrong.  Still  White 
Fang  suspected ;  and  though  the  meat  was  proffered 
to  him  with  short  inviting  thrusts  of  the  hand,  he  re 
fused  to  touch  it.  The  gods  were  all- wise,  and  there 
was  no  telling  what  masterful  treachery  lurked  be 
hind  that  apparently  harmless  piece  of  meat.  In 
past  experience,  especially  in  dealing  with  squaws, 
meat  and  punishment  had  often  been  disastrously  re 
lated. 

In  the  end,  the  god  tossed  the  meat  on  the  snow 
at  White  Fang's  feet.  He  smelled  the  meat  care 
fully;  but  he  did  not  look  at  it.  While  he  smelled 
it  he  kept  his  eyes  on  the  god.  Nothing  happened. 
He  took  the  meat  into  his  mouth  and  swallowed  it. 
Still  nothing  happened.  The  god  was  actually  offer 
ing  him  another  piece  of  meat.  Again  he  refused  to 
take  it  from  the  hand,  aind  again  it  was  tossed  to  him. 
This  was  repeated  a  number  of  times.  But  there 
came  a  time  when  the  god  refused  to  toss  it.  He 
kept  it  in  his  hand  and  steadfastly  proffered  it. 

The  meat  was  good  meat,  and  White  Fang  was 
hungry.  Bit  by  bit,  infinitely  cautious,  he  ap 
proached  the  hand.  At  last  the  time  came  that  he 
decided  to  eat  the  meat  from  the  hand.  He  never 
took  his  eyes  from  the  god,  thrusting  his  head  for 
ward  with  ears  flattened  back  and  hair  involuntarily 
rising  and  creating  on  his  neck.  Also  a  low  growl 


THE  LOVE-MASTER  253 

rumbled  in  his  throat  as  warning  that  he  was  not  to 
be  trifled  with.  He  ate  the  meat,  and  nothing  hap 
pened.  Piece  by  piece,  he  ate  all  the  meat,  and  noth 
ing  happened.  Still  the  punishment  delayed. 

He  licked  his  chops  and  waited.  The  god  went 
on  talking.  In  his  voice  was  kindness — something 
of  which  White  Fang  had  no  experience  whatever. 
And  within  him  it  aroused  feelings  which  he  had  like 
wise  never  experienced  before.  He  was  aware  of  a 
certain  strange  satisfaction,  as  though  some  need 
were  being  gratified,  as  though  some  void  in  his 
being  were  being  filled.  Then  again  came  the  prod 
of  his  instinct  and  the  warning  of  past  experience. 
The  gods  were  ever  crafty,  and  they  had  unguessed 
ways  of  attaining  their  ends. 

Ah,  he  had  thought  so!  There  it  came  now,  the 
god's  hand,  cunning  to  hurt,  thrusting  out  at  him, 
descending  upon  his  head.  But  the  god  went  on 
talking.  His  voice  was  soft  and  soothing.  In  spite 
of  the  menacing  hand,  the  voice  inspired  confidence. 
And  in  spite  of  the  assuring  voice,  the  hand  inspired  j 
distrust.  White  Fang  was  torn  by  conflicting  feel 
ings,  impulses.  It  seemed  he  would  fly  to  pieces,  so 
terrible  was  the  control  he  was  exerting,  holding  to 
gether  by  an  unwonted  indecision  the-  counter-forces 
that  struggled  within  him  for  mastery. 

He  compromised.  He  snarled  and  bristled  and 
flattened  his  ears.  But  he  neither  snapped  nor 


254  WHITE  FANG 

sprang  away.  The  hand  descended.  Nearer  and 
nearer  it  came.  It  touched  the  ends  of  his  upstand 
ing  hair.  He  shrank  down  under  it.  It  followed 
down  after  him,  pressing  more  closely  against  him. 
Shrinking,  almost  shivering,  he  still  managed  to  hold 
himself  together.  It  was  a  torment,  this  hand  that 
touched  him  and  violated  his  instinct.  He  could  not 
forget  in  a  day  all  the  evil  that  had  been  wrought  him 
at  the  hands  of  men.  But  it  was  the  will  of  the  god, 
and  he  strove  to  submit. 

The  hand  lifted  and  descended  again  in  a  patting, 
caressing  movement.  This  continued,  but  every 
time  the  hand  lifted  the  hair  lifted  under  it.  And 
every  time  the  hand  descended,  the  ears  flattened 
down  and  a  cavernous  growl  surged  in  his  throat. 
White  Fang  growled  and  growled  with  insistent 
warning.  By  this  means  he  announced  that  he  was 
prepared  to  retaliate  for  any  hurt  he  might  receive. 
There  was  no  telling  when  the  god 's  ulterior  motive 
might  be  disclosed.  At  any  moment  that  soft,  con 
fidence-inspiring  voice  might  break  forth  in  a  roar  of 
wrath,  that  gentle  and  caressing  hand  transform 
itself  into  a  viselike  grip  to  hold  him  helpless  and  ad 
minister  punishment. 

But  the  god  talked -on  softly,  and  ever  the  hand 
rose  and  fell  with  non-hostile  pats.  White  Fang 
expressed  dual  feelings.  It  was  distasteful  to  his 


THE  LOVE-MASTER  255 

instinct.  It  restrained  him,  opposed  the  will  of  him 
toward  personal  liberty.  And  yet  it  was  not  physi 
cally  painful.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  even  pleasant, 
in  a  physical  way.  The  patting  movement  slowly 
and  carefully  changed  to  a  rubbing  of  the  ears  about 
their  bases,  and  the  physical  pleasure  even  increased 
a  little.  Yet  he  continued  to  fear,  and  he  stood  on 
guard,  expectant  of  unguessed  evil,  alternately  suf 
fering  and  enjoying  as  one  feeling  or  the  other  came 
uppermost  and  swayed  him. 

"Well,  I'll  be  gosh-swoggled!" 

So  spoke  Matt,  coming  out  of  the  cabin,  his  sleeves 
roiled  up,  a  pan  of  dirty  dish-water  in  his  hands, 
arrested  in  the  act  of  emptying  the  pan  by  the  sight 
of  Weedon  Scott  patting  White  Fang. 

At  the  instant  his  voice  broke  the  silence,  White 
Fang  leaped  back,  snarling  savagely  at  him. 

Matt  regarded  his  employer  with  grieved  dis 
approval. 

"If  you  don't  mind  my  expressin'  my  feelin's,  Mr. 
Scott,  I  '11  make  free  to  say  you  're  seventeen  kinds  of 
a  damn  fool  an'  all  of  'em  different,  and  then  some. " 

Weedon  Scott  smiled  with  a  superior  air,  gained 
his  feet  and  walked  over  to  White  Fang.  He  talked 
soothingly  to  him,  but  not  for  long,  then  slowly  put 
out  his  hand,  rested  it  on  White  Fang's  head,  and 
resumed  the  interrupted  patting.  White  Fang  en- 


25o  WHITE  FANG 

dured  it,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  suspiciously,  not  upon 
the  man  that  patted  him,  but  upon  the  man  that  stood 
in  the  doorway. 

' '  You  may  be  a  number  one,  tip-top  minin '  expert, 
all  right  all  right, "  the  dog-musher  delivered  himself 
oracularly,  "but  you  missed  the  chance  of  your  life 
when  you  was  a  boy  an'  didn't  run  off  an'  join  a 
circus." 

White  Fang  snarled  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  but 
this  time  did  not  leap  away  from  under  the  hand  that 
was  caressing  his  head  and  the  back  of  his  neck  with 
long,  soothing  strokes. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  end  for  White  Fang 
— the  ending  of  the  old  life  and  the  reign  of  hate. 
A  new  and  incomprehensibly  fairer  life  was  dawn 
ing.  It  required  much  thinking  and  endless  patience 
on  the  part  of  Weedon  Scott  to  accomplish  this. 
And  on  the  part  of  White  Fang  it  required  nothing 
less  than  a  revolution.  He  had  to  ignore  the  urges 
and  promptings  of  instinct  and  reason,  defy  experi 
ence,  give  the  lie  to  life  itself. 

Life,  as  he  had  known  it,  not  only  had  had  no 
place  in  it  for  much  that  he  now  did;  but  all  the 
currents  had  gone  counter  to  those  to  which  he  now 
abandoned  himself.  In  short,  when  all  things  were 
considered,  he  had  to  achieve  a1!  orientation  far 
vaster  than  the  one  he  had  achieved  at  the  time  he 
came  voluntarily  in  from  the  Wild  and  accepted 


THE  LOVE-MASTER  257 

Gray  Beaver  as  his  lord.  At  that  time  he  was  a 
mere  puppy,  soft  from  the  making,  without  form, 
ready  for  the  thumb  of  circumstance  to  begin  its 
work  upon  him.  But~  now  ^T^was~different.  The 
thumb  of  circumstance  had  done  its  work  only  too 
well.  By  it  he  had  been  formed  and  hardened 
into  the  Fighting  Wolf,  fierce  and  implacable,  unlov 
ing  and  unlovable.  To  accomplish  the  change  was 
like  a  reflux  of  being,  and  this  when  the  plasticity 
of  youth  was  no  longer  his;  when  the  fibre  of  him 
had  become  tough  and  knotty;  when  the  warp  and 
the  woof  of  him  had  made  of  him  an  adamantine  tex 
ture,  harsh  and  unyielding;  when  the  face  of  his 
spirit  had  become  iron  and  all  his  instincts  and  ax 
ioms  had  crystallized  into  set  rules,  cautions,  dis 
likes,  and  desires. 

Yet  again,  in  this  new  orientation,  it  was  the 
thumb  of  circumstance  that  pressed  and  prodded 
him,  softening  that  which  had  become  hard  and  re 
moulding  it  into  fairer  form.  Weedon  Scott  was 
in  truth  this  thumb.  He  had  gone  to  the  roots  of 
White  Fang's  nature,  and  with  kindness  touched  to 
life  potencies  that  had  languished  and  well-nigh  per 
ished.  One  such  potency  was  love.  It  took  the 
place  of  like,  which  latter  had  been  the  highest  feel 
ing  that  thrilled  him  in  his  intercourse  with  the  gods. 

But  this  love  did  not  come  in  a  day.  It  began 
with  like  and  out  of  it  slowly  developed.  White 


258  WHITE  FANG 

Fang  did  not  run  away,  though  he  was  allowed  to 
remain  loose,  because  he  liked  this  new  god.  This 
was  certainly  better  than  the  life  he  had  lived  in  the 
cage  of  Beauty  Smith,  and  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  have  some  god.  The  lordship  of  man  was 
a  need  of  his  nature.  The  seal  of  his  dependence  on 
man  had  been  set  upon  him  in  that  early  day  when 
he  turned  his  back  on  the  Wild  and  crawled  to  Gray 
Beaver's  feet  to  receive  the  expected  beating.  This 
seal  had  been  stamped  upon  him  again,  and  ineradi- 
cably,  on  his  second  return  from  the  Wild,  when  the 
long  famine  was  over  and  there  was  fish  once  more 
in  the  village  of  Gray  Beaver. 

And  so,  because  he  needed  a  god  and  because  he 
preferred  Weedon  Scott  to  Beauty  Smith,  White 
Fang  remained.  In  acknowledgment  of  fealty,  he 
proceeded  to  take  upon  himself  the  guardianship 
of  his  master's  property.  He  prowled  about  the 
cabin  while  the  sled-dogs  slept,  and  the  first  night- 
visitor  to  the  cabin  fought  him  off  with  a  club  until 
Weedon  Scott  came  to  the  rescue.  But  White  Fang 
soon  learned  to  differentiate  between  thieves  and 
honest  men,  to  appraise  the  true  value  of  step  and 
carriage.  The  man  who  travelled,  loud-stepping, 
the  direct  line  to  the  CEtbin  door,  he  let  alone — though 
he  watched  him  vigilantly  until  the  door  opened  and 
he  received  the  indorsement  of  the  master.  But  the 
man  who  went  softly,  by  circuitous  ways,  peering 


THE  LOVE-MASTER  259 

with  caution,  seeking  after  secrecy — that  was  the 
man  who  received  no  suspension  of  judgment  from 
White  Fang,  and  who  went  away  abruptly,  hur 
riedly,  and  without  dignity. 

Weedon  Scott  had  set  himself  the  task  of  redeem 
ing  White  Fang — or  rather,  of  redeeming  mankind 
from  the  wrong  it  had  done  White  Fang.  It  was 
a  matter  of  principle  and  conscience.  He  felt  that 
the  ill  done  White  Fang  was  a  debt  incurred  by  man 
and  that  it  must  be  paid.  So  he  went  out  of  his  way 
to  be  especially  kind  to  the  Fighting  Wolf.  Each 
day  he  made  it  a  point  to  caress  and  pet  White  Fang, 
and  to  do  it  at  length. 

At  first  suspicious  and  hostile,  White  Fang  grew 
to  like  this  petting.  But  there  was  one  thing  that  he 
never  outgrew — his  growling.  Growl  he  would, 
from  the  moment  the  petting  began  until  it  ended. 
But  it  was  a  growl  with  a  new  note  in  it.  A  stranger 
could  not  hear  this  note,  and  to  such  a  stranger  the 
growling  of  White  Fang  was  an  exhibition  of  pri 
mordial  savagery,  nerve-racking  and  blood-curdling. 
But  White  Fang's  throat  had  become  harsh-fibred 
from  the  making  of  ferocious  sounds  through  the 
many  years  since  his  first  little  rasp  of  anger  in 
the  lair  of  his-  cubhood,  and  he  could  not  soften  the 
sounds  of  that  throat  now  to  express  the  gentleness 
he  felt.  Nevertheless,  Weedon  Scott's  ear  and  sym 
pathy  were  fine  enough  to  catch  the  new  note  all 


260  WHITE  FANG 

but  drowned  in  the  fierceness — the  note  that  was 
the  faintest  hint  of  a  croon  of  content  and  that  none 
but  he  could  hear. 

As  the  days  went  by,  the  evolution  of  like  into  love 
was    accelerated.    White   Fang   himself   began   to 
grow  aware  of  it,  though  in  his  consciousness  he 
knew  not  what  love  was.    It  manifested  itself  to 
him  as  a  void  in  his  being — a  hungry,  aching,  yearn 
ing  void  that  clamored  to  be  filled.    It  was  a  pain 
aiid  an  unrest ;  and  it  received  easement  only  by  the 
touch  of  the  new  god's  presence.    At  such  times  love 
was  a  joy  to  him,  a  wild,  keen-thrilling  satisfaction. 
But  when  away  from  his  god,  the  pain  and  the  unrest 
returned;  the  void  in  him  sprang  up  and  pressed 
against  him  with  its   emptiness,   and  the  hunger 
gnawed  and  gnawed  unceasingly. 
;     White  Fang  was  in  the  process  of  finding  himself. 
In  spite  of  the  maturity  of  his  years  and  of  the 
savage  rigidity  of  the  mould  that  had  formed  him, 
his  nature  was  undergoing  an  expansion.     There 
was  a  burgeoning  within  him  of  strange  feelings  and 
unwonted  impulses.     His  old  code  of  conduct  was 
changing.     In  the  past  he  had  liked  comfort  and  sur 
cease  from  pain,  disliked  discomfort  and  pain,  and 
he  had  adjusted  his  actions  accordingly.    But  now 
it  was  different.     Because  of  this  new  feeling  within 
him,  he  ofttimes  elected  discomfort  and  pain  for  the 
sake  of  his  god.     Thus,  in  the  early  morning,  in- 


THE  LOVE-MASTER  261 

stead  of  roaming  and  foraging,  or  lying  in  a  shel 
tered  nook,  he  would  wait  for  hours  on  the  cheerless 
cabin-stoop  for  a  sight  of  the  god's  face.  At  night, 
when  the  god  returned  home,  White  Fang  would 
leave  the  warm  sleeping-place  he  had  burrowed  in 
the  snow  in  order  to  receive  the  friendly  snap  of 
fingers  and  the  word  of  greeting.  Meat,  even  meat 
itself,  he  would  forego  to  be  with  his  god,  to  receive 
a  caress  from  him  or  to  accompany  him  down  into 
the  town. 

Like  had  been  replaced  by  love.  And  love  was 
the  plummet  dropped  down  into  the  deeps  of  him 
where  like  had  never  gone.  And  responsive,  out  of 
his  deeps  had  come  the  new  thing — love.  That 
which  was  given  unto  him  did  he  return.  This  was 
a  god  indeed,  a  love-god,  a  warm  and  radiant  god,  in 
whose  light  White  Fang's  nature  expanded  as  a 
flower  expands  under  the  sun. 

But  White  Fang  was  not  demonstrative.  He 
was  too  old,  too  firmly  moulded,  to  become  adept 
at  expressing  himself  in  new  ways.  He  was  too 
self-possessed,  too  strongly  poised  in  his  own  isola 
tion.  Too  long  had  he  cultivated  reticence,  aloof 
ness,  and  moroseness.  He  had  never  barked  in  his 
life,  and  he  could  not  now  learn  to  bark  a  welcome 
when  his  god  approached.  He  was  never  in  the 
way,  never  extravagant  nor  foolish  in  the  expres 
sion  of  his  Jove.  He  never  ran  to  meet  his  god.  He 


262  WHITE  FANG 

waited  at  a  distance ;  but  he  always  waited,  was  al 
ways  there.     His  love  partook  of  the  nature  of  wor 
ship,  dumb,  inarticulate,  a  silent  adoration.     Only 
by  the  steady  regard  of  his  eyes  did  he  express  his 
love,  and  by  the  unceasing  following  with  his  eyes 
of  his  god's  every  movement.     Also,  at  times,  when 
I  his  god  looked  at  him  and  spoke  to  him,  he  betrayed 
!  an  awkward  self -consciousness,  caused  by  the  strug- 
;gle  of  his  love  to  express  itself  and  his  physical 
^inability  to  express  it. 

He  learned  to  adjust  himself  in  many  ways  to  his 
new  mode  of  life.  It  was  borne  in  upon  him  that 
he  must  let  his  master's  dogs  alone.  Yet  his  domi 
nant  nature  asserted  itself,  and  he  had  first  to  thrash 
them  into  an  acknowledgment  of  his  superiority  and 
leadership.  This  accomplished,  he  had  little  trouble 
with  them.  They  gave  trail  to  him  when  he  came 
and  went  or  walked  among  them,  and  when  he  as 
serted  his  will  they  obeyed. 

In  the  same  way,  he  came  to  tolerate  Matt — as  a 
possession  of  his  master.  His  master  rarely  fed 
him;  Matt  did  that,  it  was  his  business;  yet  White 
Fang  divined  that  it  was  his  master's  food  he  ate 
and  that  it  was  his  master  who  thus  fed  him  vicari 
ously.  Matt  it  was  who  tried  to  put  him  into  the 
harness  and  make  him  haul  sled  with  the  other  dogs. 
But  Matt  failed.  It  was  not  until  Weedon  Scott 
put  the  harness  on  White  Fang  and  worked  him,  that 


THE  LOVE-MASTER  263 

he  understood.  He  took  it  as  his  master's  will  that 
Matt  should  drive  him  and  work  him  just  as  he 
drove  and  worked  his  master 's  other  dogs. 

Different  from  the  Mackenzie  toboggans  were  the 
Klondike  sleds  with  runners  under  them.  And  dif 
ferent  was  the  method  of  driving  the  dogs.  There 
was  no  fan-formation  of  the  team.  The  dogs 
worked  in  single  file,  one  behind  another,  hauling  on 
double  traces.  And  here,  in  the  Klondike,  the  leader 
was  indeed  the  leader.  The  wisest  as  well  as  strong 
est  dog  was  the  leader,  and  the  team  obeyed  him  and 
feared  him.  That  White  Fang  should  quickly  gain 
the  post  was  inevitable.  He  could  not  be  satisfied 
with  less,  as  Matt  learned  after  much  inconvenience 
and  trouble.  White  Fang  picked  out  the  post  for 
himself,  and  Matt  backed  his  judgment  with  strong 
language  after  the  experiment  had  been  tried.  But, 
though  he  worked  in  the  sled  in  the  day,  White  Fang 
did  not  forego  the  guarding  of  his  master 's  prop 
erty  in  the  night.  Thus  he  was  on  duty  all  the  time, 
ever  vigilant  and  faithful,  the  most  valuable  of  all 
the  dogs. 

"Makin'  free  to  spit  out  what's  in  me,"  Matt  said, 
one  day,  "I  beg  to  state  that  you  was  a  wise  guy  all 
right  when  you  paid  the  price  you  did  for  that  dog. 
You  clean  swindled  Beauty  Smith  on  top  of  pushin' 
his  face  in  with  your  fist." 

A    recrudescence    of    anger   glinted   in   Weedon 


264  WHITE  FANG 

Scott's  gray  eyes,  and  he  muttered  savagely,  "The 
beast  I" 

In  the  late  spring  a  great  trouble  came  to  White 
Fang.  Without  warning,  the  love-master  disap 
peared.  There  had  been  warning,  but  White  Fang 
was  unversed  in  such  things  and  did  not  understand 
the  packing  of  a  grip.  He  remembered  afterward 
that  this  packing  had  preceded  the  master's  disap 
pearance;  but  at  the  time  he  suspected  nothing. 
That  night  he  waited  for  the  master  to  return.  At 
midnight  the  chill  wind  that  blew  drove  him  to 
shelter  at  the  rear  of  the  cabin.  There  he  drowsed, 
only  half  asleep,  his  ears  keyed  for  the  first  sound  of 
the  familiar  step.  But,  at  two  in  the  morning,  his 
anxiety  drove  him  out  to  the  cold  front  stoop,  where 
he  crouched  and  waited. 

But  no  master  came.  In  the  morning  the  door 
opened  and  Matt  stepped  outside.  White  Fang 
gazed  at  him  wistfully.  There  was  no  common 
speech  by  which  he  might  learn  what  he  wanted  to 
know.  The  days  came  and  went,  but  never  the 
master.  White  Fang,  who  had  never  known  sick 
ness  in  his  life,  became  sick.  He  became  very  sick, 
so  sick  that  Matt  was  finally  compelled  to  bring  him 
inside  the  cabin.  Also,  in  writing  to  his  employer, 
Matt  devoted  a  postscript  to  White  Fang. 

Weedon  Scott,  reading  the  letter  down  in  Circle 
City,  came  upon  the  following: 


THE  LOVE-MASTER  265 

'  '  That  dam  wolf  wont  work.  Wont  eat.  Aint  got 
no  spunk  left.  All  the  dogs  is  licking  him.  Wants 
to  know  what  has  become  of  you,  and  I  dont  know 
how  to  tell  him.  Mebbe  he  is  going  to  die." 

It  was  as  Matt  had  said.  White  Fang  had  ceased 
eating,  lost  heart,  and  allowed  every  dog  of  the  team 
to  thrash  him.  In  the  cabin  he  lay  on  the  floor  near 
the  stove,  without  interest  in  food,  in  Matt,  nor  in 
life.  Matt  might  talk  gently  to  him  or  swear  at  him, 
it  was  all  the  same ;  he  never  did  more  than  turn  his 
dull  eyes  upon  the  man,  then  drop  his  head  back  to 
its  customary  position  on  his  fore-paws. 

And  then,  one  night,  Matt,  reading  to  himself 
with  moving  lips  and  mumbled  sounds,  was  startled 
by  a  low  whine  from  White  Fang.  He  had  got  upon 
his  feet,  his  cars  cocked  toward  the  door,  and  he  was 
listening  intently.  A  moment  later,  Matt  heard  a 
footstep.  The  door  opened,  and  Weedon  Scott 
stepped  in.  The  two  men  shook  hands.  Then  Scott 
looked  around  the  room. 

"Where's  the  wolf  I"  he  asked. 

Then  he  discovered  him,  standing  where  he  had 
been  lying,  near  to  the  stove.  He  had  not  rushed 
forward  after  the  manner  of  other  dogs.  He  stood, 
watching  and  waiting. 

"Holy  smoke  I"  Matt  exclaimed.  "Look  at  'm 
wag  his  ta'l!" 

Weedor  Scott  strode  half  across  the  room  toward 


266  WHITE  FANG 

him,  at  the  same  time  calling  him.  White  Fang 
came  to  him,  not  with  a  great  bound,  yet  quickly. 
He  was  awkward  from  self-consciousness,  but  as  he 
drew  near,  his  eyes  took  on  a  strange  expression. 
Something,  an  incommunicable  vastness  of  feeling, 
rose  up  into  his  eyes  as  a  light  and  shone  forth. 

"He  never  looked  at  me  that  way  all  the  time  you 
was  gone,"  Matt  commented. 

Weedon  Scott  did  not  hear.  He  was  squatting 
down  on  his  heels,  face  to  face  with  White  Fang  and 
petting  him — rubbing  at  the  roots  of  the  ears,  mak 
ing  long,  caressing  strokes  down  the  neck  to  the 
shoulders,  tapping  the  spine  gently  with  the  balls  of 
his  fingers.  And  White  Fang  was  growling  respon- 
sively,  the  crooning  note  of  the  growl  more  pro 
nounced  than  ever. 

But  that  was  not  all.  What  of  his  joy,  the  great 
love  in  him,  ever  surging  and  struggling  to  express 
itself,  succeeded  in  finding  a  new  mode  of  expression. 
He  suddenly  thrust  his  head  forward  and  nudged 
his  way  in  between  the  master 's  arm  and  body.  And 
here,  confined,  hidden  from  view  all  except  his  ears, 
no  longer  growling,  he  continued  to  nudge  and  snug 
gle. 

The  two  men  looked 'at  each  other.  Scott 's  eyes 
were  shining. 

"Gosh!"  said  Matt  in  an  awe-stricken,  voice. 

A  moment  later,  when  he  had  recovert  1  himself, 


THE  LOVE-MASTER  267 

he  said,  "I  always  insisted  that  wolf  was  a  dog. 
Look  at  'm!" 

With  the  return  of  the  love-master,  White  Fang's 
recovery  was  rapid.  Two  nights  and  a  day  he  spent 
in  the  cabin.  Then  he  sallied  forth.  The  sled-dogs 
had  forgotten  his  prowess.  They  remembered  only 
the  latest,  which  was  his  weakness  and  sickness.  At 
the  sight  of  him  as  he  came  out  of  the  cabin,  they 
sprang  upon  him. 

"Talk  about  your  rough-houses, "  Matt  murmured 
gleefully,  standing  in  the  doorway  and  looking  on. 
'  *  Give  'm  hell,  you  wolf !  Give  'm  hell ! — and  then 
some!" 

White  Fang  did  not  need  the  encouragement. 
The  return  of  the  love-master  was  enough.  Life  was 
flowing  through  him  again,  splendid  and  indomitable. 
He  fought  from  sheer  joy,  finding  in  it  an  expres 
sion  of  much  that  he  felt  and  that  otherwise  was 
without  speech.  There  could  be  but  one  ending. 
The  team  dispersed  in  ignominious  defeat,  and  it 
was  not  until  after  dark  that  the  dogs  came  sneak 
ing  back,  one  by  one,  by  meekness  and  humility  sig 
nifying  their  fealty  to  White  Fang. 

Having  learned  to  snuggle,  White  Fang  was  guilty 
of  it  often.  It  was  the  final  word.  He  could  not 
go  beyond  it.  The  one  thing  of  which  he  had  al 
ways  been  particularly  jealous,  was  his  head.  He 
had  always  disliked  to  have  it  touched.  It  was  the 


268  WHITE  FANG 

Wild  in  him,  the  fear  of  hurt  and  of  the  trap,  that 
had  given  rise  to  the  panicky  impulses  to  avoid  con 
tacts.  It  was  the  mandate  of  his  instinct  that  that 
head  must  be  free.  And  now,  with  the  love-master, 
his  snuggling  was  the  deliberate  act  of  putting  him 
self  into  a  position  of  hopeless  helplessness.  It  was 
an  expression  of  perfect  confidence,  of  absolute  self- 
surrender,  as  though  he  said:  "I  put  myself  into 
thy  hands.  Work  thou  thy  will  with  me." 

One  night,  not  long  after  the  return,  Scott  and 
Matt  sat  at  a  game  of  cribbage  preliminary  to  going 
to  bed.  " Fifteen-two,  fifteen-four  an'  a  pair  makes 
six,"  Matt  was  pegging  up,  when  there  was  an  out 
cry  and  sound  of  snarling  without.  They  looked  at 
each  other  as  they  started  to  rise  to  their  feet. 

"The  wolf's  nailed  somebody,"  Matt  said. 

A  wild  scream  of  fear  and  anguish  hastened  them. 

"Bring  a  light!"  Scott  shouted,  as  he  sprang  out 
side. 

^iatt  followed  with  the  lamp,  and  by  its  light  they 
saw  a  man  lying  on  his  back  in  the  snow.  His  arms 
were  folded,  one  above  the  other,  across  his  face  and 
throat.  Thus  he  was  trying  to  shield  himself  from 
White  Fang's  teeth.  And  there  was  need  for  it. 
White  Fang  was  in  n  rage,  wickedly  making  his 
attack  on  the  most  vulnerable  spot.  From  shoulder 
to  wrist  of  the  crossed  arms,  the  coat-sleeve,  blue 
flannel  shirt  and  undershirt  were  ripped  in  rags, 


THE  LOVE-MASTER  269 

while  the  arms  themselves  were  terribly  slashed  and 
streaming  blood. 

All  this  the  two  men  saw  in  the  first  instant. 
The  next  instant  Weedon  Scott  had  White  Fang  oy 
the  throat  and  was  dragging  him  clear.  White 
Fang  struggled  and  snarled,  but  made  no  attempt 
to  bite,  while  he  quickly  quieted  down  at  a  sharp 
word  from  the  master. 

Matt  helped  the  man  to  his  feet.  As  he  arose  he 
lowered  his  crossed  arms,  exposing  the  bestial  face 
of  Beauty  Smith.  The  dog-musher  let  go  of  him 
precipitately,  with  action  similar  to  that  of  a  man 
who  has  picked  up  live  fire.  Beauty  Smith  blinked 
in  the  lamplight  and  looked  about  him.  He  caught 
sight  of  White  Fang  and  terror  rushed  into  his 
face. 

At  the  same  moment  Matt  noticed  two  objects  ly 
ing  in  the  snow.  He  held  the  lamp  close  to  them, 
indicating  them  with  his  toe  for  his  employer's 
benefit — a  steel  dog-chain  and  a  stout  club. 

Weedon  Scott  saw  and  nodded.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken.  The  dog-musher  laid  his  hand  on  Beauty 
Smith's  shoulder  and  faced  him  to  the  right-about. 
No  word  needed  to  be  spoken.  Beauty  Smith 
started. 

In  the  meantime  the  love-master  was  patting 
White  Fang  and  talking  to  him. 

* '  Tried  to  steal  you,  eh  ?    And  you  wouldn  't  have 


270  WHITE  FANG 

it!    Well,  well,  he  made  a  mistake,  didn't  lie?" 
"Must  'a'  thought  he  had  hold  of  seventeen  dev 
ils,"  the  dog-musher  sniggered. 

White  Fang,  still  wrought  up  and  bristling, 
growled  and  growled,  the  hair  slowly  lying  down, 
the  crooning  note  remote  and  dim,  but  growing  m 
his  throat. 


PAET  FIVE 
THE  TAME 

CHAPTER      I       ........  THE  LONG  TRAIL 

CHAPTER    II       ..       .       ...       .       .  THE  SOUTHLAND 

CHAPTER  III THE  GOD'S  DOMAIN 

CHAPTER  IV       ........  THE  CALL  OF  KIND 

CHAPTER    V  ,.,      ...      i.       •       •  THE  SLEEPING  WOLF 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   LONG   TBAIL. 

IT  was  in  the  air.  White  Fang  sensed  the  coming 
calamity,  even  before  there  was  tangible  evidence  of 
it.  In  vague  ways  it  was  borne  in  upon  him  that  a 
change  was  impending.  He  knew  not  how  nor  why, 
yet  he  got  his  feel  of  the  oncoming  event  from  the 
gods  themselves.  In  ways  subtler  than  they  knew, 
they  betrayed  their  intentions  to  the  wolf-dog  that 
haunted  the  cabin-stoop,  and  that,  though  he  never 
came  inside  the  cabin,  knew  what  went  on  inside 
their  brains. 

"Listen  to  that,  will  you!"  the  dog-musher  ex 
claimed  at  supper  one  night. 

Weedon  Scott  listened.  Through  the  door  came  a 
low,  anxious  whine,  like  a  sobbing  under  the  breath 
that  has  just  grown  audible.  Then  came  the  long 
sniff,  as  White  Fang  reassured  himself  that  his  god 
was  still  inside  and  had  not  yet  taken  himself  off  in 
mysterious  and  solitary  flight. 

"I  do  believe  that  wolf's  on  to  you,"  the  dog- 
musher  said. 

Weedon  Scott  looked  across  at  his  companion  with 

273 


274  WHITE  FANG 

eyes  that  almost  pleaded,  though  this  was  given  the 
lie  by  his  words. 

"What  the  devil  can  I  do  with  a  wolf  in  Calif or- 
nia?"  he  demanded. 

<  '  That 's  what  I  say, '  '  Matt  answered.  <  '  What  the 
devil  can  you  do  with  a  wolf  in  Calif ornia?" 

But  this  did  not  satisfy  Weedon  Scott.  The  other 
seemed  to  be  judging  him  in  a  non-committal  sort  of 
way. 

"White-man's  dogs  would  have  no  show  against 
him, ' '  Scott  went  on.  ' i  He  'd  kill  them  on  sight.  If 
he  didn't  bankrupt  me  with  damage  suits,  the  au 
thorities  would  take  him  away  from  me  and  electro 
cute  him." 

"He's  a  downright  murderer,  I  know,"  was  the 
dog-musher's  comment. 

Weedon  Scott  looked  at  him  suspiciously 

"It  would  never  do,"  he  said  decisively. 

"It  would  never  do,"  Matt  concurred.  "Why, 
you'd  have  to  hire  a  man  'specially  to  take  care  of 
'm." 

The  other's  suspicion  was  allayed.  He  nodded 
cheerfully.  In  the  silence  that  followed,  the  low, 
half-sobbing  whine  was  heard  at  the  door  and  then 
the  long,  questing  sniff. 

"There's  no  denyin'  he  thinks  a  hell  of  a  lot  of 
you,"  Matt  said. 

The  other  glared  at  him  in  sudden  wrath.    ' i  Damn 


THE  LONG  TRAIL  275 

it  all,  man !    I  know  my  own  mind  and  what 's  best ! ' ' 

*  *  I  'm  agreein '  with  you,  only  .  .  . " 

"Only  what?"  Scott  snapped  out. 

"Only  ..."  the  dog- r  usher  began  softly,  then 
changed  his  mind  and  betrayed  a  rising  anger  of  his 
own.  "Well,  you  needn't  get  so  all-fired  het  up 
about  it.  Judgin'  by  your  actions  one'd  think  you 
didn  't  know  your  own  mind. ' ' 

Weedon  Scott  debated  with  himself  for  a  while, 
and  then  said  more  gently:  "You  are  right,  Matt. 
I  don't  know  my  own  mind,  and  that's  what's  the 
trouble." 

"Why,  it  would  be  rank  ridiculousness  for  me  to 
take  that  dog  along,"  he  broke  out  after  another 
pause. 

"I'm  agreein'  with  you,"  was  Matt's  answer,  and 
again  his  employer  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  him. 

"But  how  in  the  name  of  the  great  Sardanapalus 
he  knows  you're  go  in'  is  what  gets  me,"  the  dog- 
musher  continued  innocently. 

"It's  beyond  me,  Matt,"  Scott  answered,  with  a 
mournful  shake  of  the  head. 

Then  came  the  day  when,  through  the  open  cabin 
door,  White  Fang  saw  the  fatal  grip  on  the  floor  and 
the  love-master  packing  things  into  it.  Also,  there 
were  comings  and  goings,  and  the  erstwhile  placid  at 
mosphere  of  the  cabin  was  vexed  with  strange  per 
turbations  and  unrest.  Here  was  indubitable  evi- 


276  WHITE  FANG 

dence.  White  Fang  had  already  sensed  it.  He 
now  reasoned  it.  His  god  was  preparing  for  an 
other  flight.  And  since  he  had  not  taken  him  with 
him  before,  so,  now,  he  could  look  to  be  left  behind. 

That  night  he  lifted  the  long  wolf -howl.  As  he 
had  howled,  in  his  puppy  days,  when  he  fled  back 
from  the  Wild  to  the  village  to  find  it  vanished  and 
naught  but  a  rubbish-heap  to  mark  the  site  of  Gray 
Beaver's  tepee,  so  now  he  pointed  his  muzzle  to  the 
cold  stars  and  told  to  them  his  woe. 

Inside  the  cabin  the  two  men  had  just  gone  to  bed. 

"He's  gone  off  his  food  again, "  Matt  remarked 
from  his  bunk. 

There  was  a  grunt  from  Weedon  Scott's  bunk,  and 
a  stir  of  blankets. 

1 '  From  the  way  he  cut  up  the  other  time  you  went 
away,  I  wouldn't  wonder  this  time  but  what  he 
died." 

The  blankets  in  the  other  bunk  stirred  irritably. 

*  '  Oh,  shut  up ! "  Scott  cried  out  through  the  dark 
ness.  "You  nag  worse  than  a  woman." 

"I'm  agreein'  with  you,"  the  dog-musher  an 
swered,  and  Weedon  Scott  was  not  quite  sure 
whether  or  not  the  other  had  snickered. 

The  next  day  White  Fang's  anxiety  and  restless 
ness  were  even  more  pronounced.  He  dogged  his 
master's  heels  whenever  he  left  the  cabin,  and 
haunted  the  front  stoop  when  he  remained  inside 


THE  LONG  TRAIL  277 

Through  the  open  door  he  could  catch  glimpses  of 
the  luggage  on  the  floor.  The  grip  had  been  joined 
by  two  large  canvas  bags  and  a  box.  Matt  was  roll 
ing  the  master 's  blankets  and  fur  robe  inside  a  small 
tarpaulin.  White  Fang  whined  as  he  watched  the 
operation. 

Later  on,  two  Indians  arrived.  He  watched  them 
closely  as  they  shouldered  the  luggage  and  were  led 
off  down  the  hill  by  Matt,  who  carried  the  bedding 
and  the  grip.  But  White  Fang  did  not  follow  them. 
The  master  was  still  in  the  cabin.  After  a  time, 
Matt  returned.  The  master  came  to  the  door  and 
called  White  Fang  inside. 

'  4  You  poor  devil,  ' '  he  said  gently,  rubbing  White 
Fang's  ears  and  tapping  his  spine.  "I'm  hitting 
the  .long  trail,  old  man,  where  you  cannot  follow. 
Now  give  me  a  growl — the  last,  good,  good-by 
growl. ' ' 

But  White  Fang  refused  to  growl.  Instead,  and 
after  a  wistful,  searching  look,  he  snuggled  in,  bur 
rowing  his  head  out  of  sight  between  the  master's 
arm  and  body. 

1 '  There  she  blows ! ' '  Matt  cried.  From  the  Yukon 
arose  the  hoarse  bellowing  of  a  river  steamboat. 
"You've  got  to  cut  it  short.  Be  sure  and  lock  the 
front  door.  I  '11  go  out  the  back.  Get  a  move  on ! " 

The  two  doors  slammed  at  the  same  moment, 
and  Weedon  Scott  waited  for  Matt  to  come  around 


278  WHITE  FANG 

to  the  front.  From  inside  the  door  came  a  low 
whining  and  sobbing.  Then  there  were  long,  deep- 
drawn  sniffs. 

"You  must  take  good  care  of  him,  Matt,"  Scott 
said,  as  they  started  down  the  hill.  "Write  and  let 
me  know  how  he  gets  along. " 

"Surs,"  the  dog-musher  answered.  "But  listen 
to  that,  will  you !" 

Both  men  stopped.  White  Fang  was  howling  as 
dogs  howl  when  their  masters  lie  dead.  He  was 
voicing  an  utter  woe,  his  cry  bursting  upward  in 
great,  heart-breaking  rushes,  dying  down  into  quav 
ering  misery,  and  bursting  upward  again  with  rush 
upon  rush  of  grief. 

The  Aurora  was  the  first  steamboat  of  the  year 
for  the  Outside,  and  her  decks  were  jammed  with 
prosperous  adventurers  and  broken  gold  seekers,  all 
equally  as  mad  to  get  to  the  Outside  as  they  had 
been  originally  to  get  to  the  Inside.  Near  the  gang 
plank,  Scott  was  shaking  hands  with  Matt,  who  was 
preparing  to  go  ashore.  But  Matt 's  hand  went  limp 
in  the  other's  grasp  as  his  gaze  shot  past  and  re 
mained  fixed  on  something  behind  him  Scott  turned 
to  see.  Sitting  on  the  deck  several  feet  awray  and 
watching  wistfully  was  White  Fang. 

The  dog-musher  swore  softly,  in  awe-stricken  ac 
cents  Scott  could  only  look  in  wonder. 

'  '  Did  you  lock  the  front  door  ? ' '  Matt  demanded. 


THE  LONC;  IK  AIL  279 

The  other  nodded,  and  asked,  "How  about  the 
back?" 

"You  just  bet  I  did,"  was  the  fervent  reply. 

White  Fang  flattened  his  ears  ingratiatingly,  but 
remained  where  he  was,  making  no  attempt  to  ap 
proach. 

"I'll  have  to  take  'm  ashore  with  me." 

Matt  made  a  couple  of  steps  toward  White  Fang, 
but  the  latter  slid  away  from  him.  The  dog-musher 
made  a  rush  of  it,  and  White  Fang  dodged  between 
the  legs  of  a  group  of  men.  Ducking,  turning,  dou 
bling,  he  slid  about  the  desk,  eluding  the  other 's  ef 
forts  to  capture  him. 

But  when  the  love-master  spoke,  White  Fang  came 
to  him  with  prompt  obedience. 

"Won't  come  to  the  hand  that's  fed  'm  all  these 
months,"  the  dog-musher  muttered  resentfully. 
"And  you — you  ain't  never  fed  'm  after  them  first 
days  of  gettin '  acquainted.  I  'm  blamed  if  I  can  see 
how  he  works  it  out  that  you're  the  boss." 

Scott,  who  had  been  patting  White  Fang,  sud 
denly  bent  closer  and  pointed  out  fresh-made  cuts 
on  his  muzzle,  and  a  gash  between  the  eyes. 

Matt  bent  over  and  passed  his  hand  along  White 
Fang's  belly. 

"We  plumb  forgot  the  window.  He's  all  cut  an' 
gouged  underneath.  Must  'a'  butted  clean  through 
it,  b'gosh!" 


280  WHITE  F 


But  Weedon  Scott  was  not  listening.  He  was 
thinking  rapidly.  The  Aurora's  whistle  hooted  a 
final  announcement  of  departure.  Men  were  scurry 
ing  down  the  gang-plank  to  the  shore.  Matt  loos 
ened  the  bandana  from  his  own  neck  and  started  to 
put  it  around  White  Fang's.  Scott  grasped  the  dog- 
musher's  hand. 

"Good-by,  Matt,  old  man.  About  the  wolf  —you 
needn't  write.  You  see,  I've  .  .  .  I" 

"What!"  the  dog-musher  exploded.  "You  don't 
mean  to  say  ...  ?  " 

"The  very  thing  I  mean.  Here's  your  bandana. 
I'll  write  to  you  about  him." 

Matt  paused  halfway  down  the  gang-plank. 

'  '  He  '11  never  stand  the  climate  !  "  he  shouted  back. 
"Unless  you  clip  'm  in  warm  weather!" 

The  gang-plank  was  hauled  in,  and  the  Aurora 
swung  out  from  the  bank.  Weedon  Scott  waved  a 
last  good-by.  Then  he  turned  and  bent  over  White 
Fang,  standing  by  his  side. 

"Now  growl,  damn  you,  growl,"  he  said,  as  he 
patted  the  responsive  head  and  rubbed  the  flatten 
ing  ears. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   SOUTHLAND 

WHITE  FANG  landed  from  the  steamer  in  San 
Francisco.  He  was  appalled.  Deep  in  him,  below 
any  reasoning  process  or  act  of  consciousness,  he 
had  associated  power  with  godhead.  And  never  had 
the  white  men  seemed  such  marvellous  gods  as  now, 
when  he  trod  the  slimy  pavement  of  San  Francisco. 
The  log  cabins  he  had  known  were  replaced  by  tow 
ering  buildings.  The  streets  were  crowded  with 
perils — wagons,  carts,  automobiles;  great,  straining 
horses  pulling  huge  trucks ;  and  monstrous  cable  and 
electric  cars  hooting  and  clanging  through  the  midst, 
screeching  their  insistent  menace  after  the  manner 
of  the  lynxes  he  had  known  in  the  northern  woods. 

All  this  was  the  manifestation  of  power. 
Through  it  all,  behind  it  all,  was  man,  governing  and 
controlling,  expressing  himself,  as  of  old,  by  his  mas 
tery  over  matter.  It  was  colossal,  stunning.  White 
Fang  was  awed.  Fear  sat  upon  him.  As  in  his  cub- 
hood  he  had  been  made  to  feel  his  smallness  and 
puniness  on  the  day  he  first  came  in  from  the  Wild 
to  the  village  of  Gray  Beaver,  so  now,  in  his  full- 
grown  stature  and  pride  of  strength,  he  was  made  to 

281 


282  WHITE  FANG 

feel  small  and  puny.  And  there  were  so  many  gods ! 
He  was  made  dizzy  by  the  swarming  of  them.  The 
thunder  of  the  streets  smote  upon  his  ears.  He  was 
bewildered  by  the  tremendous  and  endless  rush  and 
movement  of  things.  As  never  before,  he  felt  his 
dependence  on  the  love-master,  close  at  whose  heels 
he  followed,  no  matter  what  happened  never  losing 
sight  of  him. 

But  White  Fang  was  to  have  no  more  than  a  night 
mare  vision  of  the  city — an  experience  that  was  like 
a  bad  dream,  unreal  and  terrible,  that  haunted  him 
for  long  after  in  his  dreams.  He  was  put  into  a 
baggage-car  by  the  master,  chained  in  a  corner  in 
the  midst  of  heaped  trunks  and  valises.  Here  a 
squat  and  brawny  god  held  sway,  with  much  noise, 
hurling  trunks  and  boxes  about,  dragging  them  in 
through  the  door  and  tossing  them  into  the  piles,  or 
flinging  them  out  of  the  door,  smashing  and  crash 
ing,  to  other  gods  who  awaited  them. 

And  here,  in  this  inferno  of  luggage,  was  White 
Fang  deserted  by  the  master.  Or  at  least  White 
Fang  thought  he  was  deserted,  until  he  smelled  out 
the  master's  canvas  clothes-bags  alongside  of  him 
and  proceeded  to  mount  guard  over  them. 

"  'Bout  time  you -come,"  growled  the  god  of  the 
car,  an  hour  later,  when  Weedon  Scott  appeared  at 
the  door.  "That  dog  of  yourn  won't  let  me  lay  a 
finger  on  your  stuff." 


THE  SOUTHLAND  283 

White  Fang  emerged  from  the  car.  He  was  aston 
ished.  The  nightmare  city  was  gone.  The  car  had 
been  to  him  no  more  than  a  room  in  a  house,  and 
when  he  had  entered  it  the  city  had  been  all  around 
him.  In  the  interval  the  city  had  disappeared.  The 
roar  of  it  no  longer  dinned  upon  his  ears.  Before 
him  was  smiling  country,  streaming  with  sunshine, 
lazy  with  quietude.  But  he  had  little  time  to  marvel 
at  the  transformation.  He  accepted  it  as  he  ac 
cepted  all  the  unaccountable  doings  and  manifesta 
tions  of  the  gods.  It  was  their  way. 

There  was  a  carriage  waiting.  A  man  and  a 
woman  approached  the  master.  The  woman's  arms 
went  out  and  clutched  the  master  around  the  neck 
— a  hostile  act!  The -next  moment  Weedon  Scott 
had  torn  loose  from  the  embrace  and  closed  with 
White  Fang,  who  had  become  a  snarling,  raging 
demon. 

"It's  all  right,  mother, "  Scott  was  saying  as  he 
kept  tight  hold  of  White  Fang  and  placated  him. 
"He  thought  you  were  going  to  injure  me,  and  he 
wouldn't  stand  for  it.  It's  all  right.  It's  all  right. 
He'll  learn  soon  enough." 

'  i  And  in  the  meantime  I  may  be  permitted  to  love 
my  son  when  his  dog  is  not  around,"  she  laughed, 
though  she  was  pale  and  weak  from  the  fright. 

She  looked  at  White  Fang,  who  snarled  and 
bristled  and  glared  malevolently. 


284  WHITE  FANG 

' ' He'll  have  to  learn,  and  lie  shall,  without  post 
ponement,"  Soott  said. 

He  spoke  softly  to  White  Fang  until  he  had  quieted 
him,  then  his  voice  became  firm. 

"Down,  sir!     Down  with  you!" 

This  had  been  one  of  the  things  taught  him  by  the 
master,  and  White  Fang  obeyed,  though  he  lay  down 
reluctantly  and  sullenly. 

"Now,  mother." 

Scott  opened  his  arms  to  her,  but  kept  his  eyes  on 
White  Fang. 

"Down!"  he  warned.     "Down!" 

White  Fang,  bristling  silently,  half -crouching  as 
he  rose,  sank  back  and  watched  the  hostile  act  re 
peated.  But  no  harm  came  of  it,  nor  of  the  embrace 
from  the  strange  man-god  that  followed.  Then  the 
clothes-bags  were  taken  into  the  carriage,  the 
strange  gods  and  the  love-master  followed,  and 
White  Fang  pursued,  now  running  vigilantly  behind, 
now  bristling  up  to  the  running  horses  and  warning 
them  that  he  was  there  to  see  that  no  harm  befell  the 
god  they  dragged  so  swiftly  across  the  earth. 

At  the  end  of  fifteen  minutes,  the  carriage  swung 
in  through  a  stone  gateway  and  on  between  a  double 
row  of  arched  and  .interlacing  walnut  trees.  On 
either  side  stretched  lawns,  their  broad  sweep 
broken,  here  and  there,  by  great,  sturdy-limbed  oaks. 
In  the  near  distance,  in  contrast  with  the  young 


THE  SOUTHLAND  285 

green  of  the  tended  grass,  sunburnt  hay-fields 
showed  tan  and  gold;  while  beyond  were  the  tawny 
hills  and  upland  pastures.  From  the  head  of  the 
lawn,  on  the  first  soft  swell  from  the  valley-level, 
looked  down  the  deep-porched,  many-windowed 
house. 

Little  opportunity  was  given  White  Fang  to  see 
all  this.  Hardly  had  the  carriage  entered  the 
grounds,  when  he  was  set  upon  by  a  sheep-dog, 
bright-eyed,  sharp-muzzled,  righteously  indignant 
and  angry.  It  was  between  him  and  the  master,  cut 
ting  him  off.  White  Fang  snarled  no  warning,  but 
his  hair  bristled  as  he  made  his  silent  and  deadly 
rush.  This  rush  was  never  completed.  He  halted 
with  awkward  abruptness,  with  stiff  fore-legs  brac 
ing  himsef  against  his  momentum,  almost  sitting 
down  on  his  haunches,  so  desirous  was  he  of  avoiding 
contact  with  the  dog  he  was  in  the  act  of  attacking. 
It  was  a  female,  and  the  law  of  his  kind  thrust  a 
barrier  between.  For  him  to  attack  her  would  re 
quire  nothing  less  than  a  violation  of  his  instinct. 

But  with  the  sheep-dog  it  was  otherwise.  Being  a 
female,  she  possessed  no  such  instinct.  On  the  other 
hand,  being  a  sheep-dog,  her  instinctive  fear  of  the 
Wild,  and  especially  of  the  wolf,  was  unusually  keen. 
White  Fang  was  to  her  a  wolf,  the  hereditary  ma 
rauder  who  had  preyed  upon  her  flocks  from  the 
time  sheep  were  first  herded  and  guarded  by  some 


2§p  WHITE  FANG 

dim  ancestor  of  hers.  And  so,  as  he  abandoned  his 
rush  at  her  and  braced  himself  to  avoid  the  contact, 
she  sprang  upon  him.  He  snarled  involuntarily  as 
he  felt  her  teeth  in  his  shoulder,  but  beyond  this 
made  no  offer  to  hurt  her.  He  backed  away,  stiff  - 
legged  with  self-consciousness,  and  tried  to  go 
around  her.  He  dodged  this  way  and  that,  and 
curved  and  turned,  but  to  no  purpose.  She  re 
mained  always  between  him  and  the  way  he  wanted 
to  go. 

"Here,  Collie !"  called  the  strange  man  in  the  car 
riage. 

Weedon  Scott  laughed. 

"Never  mind,  father.  It  is  good  discipline. 
White  Fang  will  have  to  learn  many  things,  and  it 's 
just  as  well  that  he  begins  now.  He'll  adjust  him 
self  all  right. " 

The  carriage  drove  on,  and  still  Collie  blocked 
White  Fang's  way.  He  tried  to  outrun  her  by  leav 
ing  the  drive  and  circling  across  the  lawn ;  but  she 
ran  on  the  inner  and  smaller  circle,  and  was  always 
there,  facing  him  with  her  two  rows  of  gleaming 
teeth.  Back  he  circled,  across  the  drive  to  the  other 
lawn,  and  again  she  headed  him  off. 

The  carriage  was  bearing  the  master  away. 
White  Fang  caught  glimpses  of  it  disappearing 
amongst  the  trees.  The  situation  was  desperate. 
He  essayed  another  circle.  She  followed,  running 


THE  SOUTHLAND  287 

swiftly.  And  then,  suddenly,  he  turned  upon  her. 
It  was  his  old  fighting  trick.  Shoulder  to  shoulder, 
he  struck  her  squarely.  Not  only  was  she  over 
thrown.  So  fast  had  she  been  running  that  she 
rolled  along,  now  on  her  back,  now  on  her  side,  as 
she  struggled  to  stop,  clawing  gravel  with  her  feet 
and  crying  shrilly  her  hurt  pride  and  indignation. 

White  Fang  did  not  wait.  The  way  was  clear, 
and  that  was  all  he  had  wanted.  She  took  after 
him,  never  ceasing  her  outcry.  It  was  the  straight 
away  now,  and  when  it  came  to  real  running,  White 
Fang  could  teach  her  things.  She  ran  frantically, 
hysterically,  straining  to  the  utmost,  advertising  the 
effort  she  was  making  with  every  leap ;  and  all  the 
time  White  Fang  slid  smoothly  away  from  her,  si 
lently,  without  effort,  gliding  like  a  ghost  over  the 
ground. 

As  he  rounded  the  house  to  the  porte-cochere,  he 
came  upon  the  carriage.  It  had  stopped,  and  the 
master  was  alighting.  At  this  moment,  still  running 
at  top  speed,  White  Fang  became  suddenly  aware 
of  an  attack  from  the  side.  It  was  a  deer-hound 
rushing  upon  him.  White  Fang  tried  to  face  it. 
But  he  was  going  too  fast,  and  the  hound  was  too 
close.  It  struck  him  on  the  side;  and  such  was  his 
forward  momentum  and  the  unexpectedness  of  it, 
White  Fang  was  hurled  to  the  ground  and  rolled 
clear  over.  He  came  out  of  the  tangle  a  spectacle 


288  WHITE  FANG 

of  malignancy,  ears  flattened  back,  lips  writhing, 
nose  wrinkling,  his  teeth  clipping  together  as  the 
fangs  barely  missed  the  hound's  soft  throat. 

The  master  was  running  up,  but  was  too  far 
away;  and  it  was  Collie  that  saved  the  hound's  life. 
Before  White  Fang  could  spring  in  and  deliver  the 
fatal  stroke,  and  just  as  he  was  in  the  act  of  spring 
ing  in,  Collie  arrived.  She  had  been  out-manoeuvred 
and  out-run,  to  say  nothing  of  her  having  been  un 
ceremoniously  tumbled  in  the  gravel,  and  her  arrival 
was  like  that  of  a  tornado — made  up  of  offended 
dignity,  justifiable  wrath,  and  instinctive  hatred  for 
this  marauder  from  the  Wild.  She  struck  White 
Fang  at  right  angles  in  the  midst  of  his  spring,  and 
again  he  was  knocked  off  his  feet  and  rolled  over. 

The  next  moment  the  master  arrived,  and  with 
one  hand  held  White  Fang,  while  the  father  called 
off  the  dogs. 

*  '  I  say,  this  is  a  pretty  warm  reception  for  a  poor 
lone  wolf  from  the  Arctic/'  the  master  said,  while 
White  Fang  calmed  down  under  his  caressing  hand. 
"In  all  his  life  he's  only  been  known  once  to  go  off 
his  feet,  and  here  he's  been  rolled  twice  in  thirty 
seconds." 

The  carriage  had  driven  away,  and  other  strange 
gods  had  appeared  from  out  the  house.  Some  of 
these  stood  respectfully  at  a  distance;  but  two  of 


THE  SOUTHLAND  289 

them,  women,  perpetrated  the  hostile  act  of  clutch 
ing  the  master  around  the  neck.  White  Fang,  how 
ever,  was  beginning  to  tolerate  this  act.  No  harm 
seemed  to  come  of  it,  while  the  noises  the  gods  made 
were  certainly  not  threatening.  These  gods  also 
made  overtures  to  White  Fang,  but  he  warned  them 
off  with  a  snarl,  and  the  master  did  likewise  with 
word  of  mouth.  At  such  times  White  Fang  leaned 
in  close  against  the  master 's  legs  and  received  reas 
suring  pats  on  the  head. 

The  hound,  under  the  command,  "Dick!  Lie 
down,  sir!"  had  gone  up  the  steps  and  lain  down  to 
one  side  on  the  porch,  still  growling  and  keeping  a 
sullen  watch  on  the  intruder.  Collie  had  been  taken 
in  charge  by  one  of  the  woman-gods,  who  held  arms 
around  her  neck  and  petted  and  caressed  her;  but 
Collie  was  very  much  perplexed  and  worried,  whin 
ing  and  restless,  outraged  by  the  permitted  presence 
of  this  wolf  and  confident  that  the  gods  were  making 
a  mistake. 

All  the  gods  started  up  the  steps  to  enter  the 
house.  White  Fang  followed  closely  at  the  master 's 
heels.  Dick,  on  the  porch,  growled,  and  White 
Fang,  on  the  steps,  bristled  and  growled  back. 

'  *  Take  Collie  inside  and  leave  the  two  of  them  to 
fight  it  out, ' '  suggested  Scott 's  father.  '  '  After  that 
they'll  be  friends. " 


290  WHITE  FANG 

6 '  Then  White  Fang,  to  show  his  friendship,  will 
have  to  be  chief  mourner  at  the  funeral,"  laughed 
the  master. 

The  elder  Scott  looked  incredulusly,  first  at  White 
Fang,  then  at  Dick,  and  finally  at  his  son. 

"You  mean  that  .  .  .  ?" 

Weedon  nodded  his  head.  "I  mean  just  that. 
You'd  have  a  dead  Dick  inside  one  minute — two 
minutes  at  the  farthest." 

He  turned  to  White  Fang.  "Come  on,  you  wolf. 
It's  you  that'll  have  to  come  inside." 

White  Fang  walked  stiff-legged  up  the  steps  and 
across  the  porch,  with  tail  rigidly  erect,  keeping 
his  eyes  on  Dick  to  guard  against  a  flank  attack,  and 
at  the  same  time  prepared  for  whatever  fierce  mani 
festation  of  the  unknown  that  might  pounce  out 
upon  him  from  the  interior  of  the  house.  But  no 
thing  of  fear  pounced  out,  and  when  he  had  gained 
the  inside  he  scouted  carefully  around,  looking  for 
it  and  finding  it  not  Then  he  lay  down  with  a  con 
tented  grunt  at  the  master's  feet,  observing  all  that 
went  on,  ever  ready  to  spring  to  his  feet  and  fight 
for  life  with  the  terrors  he  felt  must  lurk  under  the 
trap-roof  of  the  dwelling. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   GOD'S   DOMAIN 

NOT  only  was  White  Fang  adaptable  by  nature, 
but  he  had  travelled  much,  and  knew  the  meaning 
and  necessity  of  adjustment.  Here,  in  Sierra  Vista, 
which  was  the  name  of  Judge  Scott's  place,  White 
Fang  quickly  began  to  make  himself  at  home.  He 
had  no  further  serious  trouble  with  the  dogs.  They 
knew  more  about  the  ways  of  the  Southland  gods 
than  did  he,  and  in  their  eyes  he  had  qualified  when 
he  accompanied  the  gods  inside  the  house.  Wolf 
that  he  was,  and  unprecedented  as  it  was,  the  gods 
had  sanctioned  his  presence,  and  they,  the  dogs  of 
the  gods,  could  only  recognize  this  sanction. 

Dick,  perforce,  had  to  go  through  a  few  stiff 
formalities  at  first,  after  which  he  calmly  accepted 
White  Fang  as  an  addition  to  the  premises.  Had 
Dick  had  his  way,  they  would  have  been  good 
friends;  but  White  Fang  was  averse  to  friendship. 
All  he  asked  of  other  dogs  was  to  be  let  alone.  His 
whole  life  he  had  kept  aloof  from  his  kind,  and  he 
still  desired  to  keep  aloof.  Dick's  overtures  bothered 
him,  so  he  snarled  Dick  away.  In  the  north  he  had 
learned  the  lesson  that  he  must  let  the  master's  dogs 

291 


292  WHITE  FA.NG 

alone,  and  he  did  not  forget  that  lesson  now.  But 
he  insisted  on  his  own  privacy  and  self-seclusion,  and 
so  thoroughly  ignored  Dick  that  that  good-natured 
creature  finally  gave  him  up  and  scarcely  took  as 
much  interest  in  him  as  in  the  hitching-post  near  the 
stable. 

Not  so  with  Collie.  While  she  accepted  him  be 
cause  it  was  the  mandate  of  the  gods,  that  was  no 

j 

reason  that  she  should  leave  him  in  peace.  1  Woven 
into  her  being  was  the  memory  of  countless  crimes 
he  and  his  had  perpetrated  against  her  ancestry^ 
Not  in  a  day  nor  a  generation  were  the  ravaged 
sheepfolds  to  be  forgotten.  All  this  was  a  spur  to 
/  her,  pricking  her  to  retaliation.  She  could  not  fly 
in  the  face  of  the  gods  who  permitted  him,  but  that 
did  not  prevent  her  from  making  life  miserable  for 
him  in  petty  ways.  A  feud,  ages  old,  was  between 
them,  and  she,  for  one,  would  see  to  it  that  he  was 
reminded. 

So  Collie  took  advantage  of  her  sex  to  pick  upon 
White  Fang  and  maltreat  him.  His  instinct  would 
not  permit  him  to  attack  her,  while  her  persistence 
would  not  permit  him  to  ignore  her.  When  she 
rushed  at  him  he  turned  his  fur-protected  shoulder 
to  her  sharp  teeth  and  walked  away  stiff -legged  and 
stately.  When  she  forced  him  too  hard,  he  was  com 
pelled  to  go  about  in  a  circle,  his  shoulder  presented 
to  her,  his  head  turned  from  her,  and  on  his  face  and 


THE  GOD'S  DOMAIN  293 

in  his  eyes  a  patient  and  bored  expression.  Some 
times,  however,  a  nip  on  his  hind-quarters  hastened 
his  retreat  and  made  it  anything  but  stately.  But 
as  a  rule  he  managed  to  maintain  a  dignity  that  was 
almost  solemnity.  He  ignored  her  existence  when 
ever  it  was  possible,  and  made  it  a  point  to  keep  out 
of  her  way.  When  he  saw  or  heard  her  coming,  he 
got  up  and  walked  off. 

There  was  much  in  other  matters  for  Whue  Fang 
to  learn.  Life  in  the  Northland  was  simplicity  itself 
when  compared  with  the  complicated  affairs  of 
Sierra  Vista.  First  of  all,  he  had  to  learn  the  fam 
ily  of  the  master.  In  a  way  he  was  prepared  to  do 
this.  As  Mit-sah  and  Kloo-kooch  had  belonged  to 
Gray  Beaver,  sharing  his  food,  his  fire,  and  his  blank 
ets,  so  now,  at  Sierra  Vista,  belonged  to  the  love- 
master  all  the  denizens  of  the  house. 

But  in  this  matter  there  was  a  difference,  and 
many  differences.  Sierra  Vista  was  a  far  vaster 
affair  than  the  tepee  of  Gray  Beaver.  There  were 
many  persons  to  be  considered.  There  was  Judge 
Scott,  and  there  was  his  wife.  There  were  the  mas 
ter's  two  sisters,  Beth  and  Mary.  There  was  his 
wife,  Alice,  and  then  there  were  his  children.  Wee- 
don  and  Maud,  toddlers  of  four  and  six.  There  was 
no  way  for  anybody  to  tell  him  about  all  these  people, 
and  of  blood-ties  and  relationship  he  knew  nothing 
whatever  and  never  would  be  capable  of  knowing. 


294  WHITE  FANG 

Yet  he  quickly  worked  it  out  that  all  of  them  be 
longed  to  the  master.  Then,  by  observation,  when 
ever  opportunity  offered,  by  study  of  action,  speech, 
and  the  very  intonations  of  the  voice,  he  slowly 
learned  the  intimacy  and  the  degree  of  favor  they 
enjoyed  with  the  master.  And  by  this  ascertained 
standard,  White  Fang  treated  them  accordingly. 
What  was  of  value  to  the  master  he  valued;  what 
was  dear  to  the  master  was  to  be  cherished  by  White 
Fang  and  guarded  carefully. 

Thus  it  was  with  the  two  children.  All  his  life  he 
had  disliked  children.  He  hated  and  feared  their 
hands.  The  lessons  were  not  tender  that  he  had 
learned  of  their  tyranny  and  cruelty  in  the  days  of 
the  Indian  villages.  When  Weedon  and  Maud  had 
first  approached  him,  he  growled  warningly  and 
looked  malignant.  A  cuff  from  the  master  and  a 
sharp  word  had  then  compelled  him  to  permit  their 
caresses,  though  he  growled  and  growled  under  their 
tiny  hands,  and  in  the  growl  there  was  no  crooning 
note.  Later,  he  observed  that  the  boy  and  girl  were 
of  great  value  in  the  master 's  eyes.  Then  it  was 
that  no  cuff  nor  sharp  word  was  necessary  before 
they  could  pat  him. 

Yet  White  Fang  was  never  effusively  affectionate. 
He  yielded  to  the  master's  children  with  an  ill  but 
honest  grace,  and  endured  their  fooling  as  one  would 
endure  a  painful  operation.  When  he  could  no 


THE  GOD'S  DOMAIN  295 

longer  endure,  he  would  get  up  and  stalk  deter 
minedly  away  from  them.  But  after  a  time,  he 
grew  even  to  like  the  children.  Still  he  was  not 
demonstrative.  He  would  not  go  up  to  them.  On 
the  other  hand,  instead  of  walking  away  at  sight  of 
them,  he  waited  for  them  to  come  to  him.  And  still 
later,  it  was  noticed  that  a  pleased  light  came  into 
his  eyes  when  he  saw  them  approaching,  and  that  he 
looked  after  them  with  an  appearance  of  curious 
regret  when  they  left  him  for  other  amusements. 

All  this  was  a  matter  of  development,  and  took 
time.  Next  in  his  regard,  after  the  children,  was 
Judge  Scott.  There  were  two  reasons,  possibly,  for 
this.  First,  he  was  evidently  a  valuable  possession 
of  the  master's,  and  next,  he  was  undemonstrative. 
White  Fang  liked  to  lie  at  his  feet  on  the  wide  porch 
when  he  read  the  newspaper,  from  time  to  time 
favoring  White  Fang  with  a  look  or  a  word — un- 
troublesome  tokens  that  he  recognized  White  Fang's 
presence  and  existence.  But  this  was  only  when 
the  master  was  not  around.  When  the  master  ap 
peared,  all  other  beings  ceased  to  exist  so  far  as 
White  Fang  was  concerned. 

White  Fang  allowed  all  the  members  of  the  fam 
ily  to  pet  him  and  make  much  of  him;  but  he  never 
gave  to  them  what  he  gave  to  the  master.  No  caress 
of  theirs  could  put  the  love-croon  into  his  throat, 
and,  try  as  they  would,  they  could  never  persuade 


296  WHITE  FANG 

him  into  snuggling  against  them.  This  expression 
of  abandon  and  surrender,  of  absolute  trust,  he  re 
served  for  the  master  alone.  In  fact,  he  never  re 
garded  the  members  of  the  family  in  any  other  light 
than  possessions  of  the  love-master. 

Also  White  Fang  had  early  come  to  differentiate 
between  the  family  and  the  servants  of  the  house 
hold.  The  latter  were  afraid  of  him,  while  he 
merely  refrained  from  attacking  them.  This  be 
cause  he  considered  that  they  were  likewise  posses 
sions  of  the  master.  Between  White  Fang  and  them 
existed  a  neutrality  and  no  more.  They  cooked  for 
the  master  and  washed  the  dishes  and  did  other 
things,  just  as  Matt  had  done  up  in  the  Klondike. 
They  were,  in  short,  appurtenances  of  the  house 
hold. 

Outside  the  household  there  was  even  more  for 
White  Fang  to  learn.  The  master's  domain  was 
\vide  and  complex,  yet  it  had  its  metes  and  bounds. 

The  land  itself  ceased  at  the  country  road.  Out 
side  was  the  common  domain  of  all  gods — the  roads 
and  streets.  Then  inside  other  fences  were  the  par 
ticular  domains  of  other  gods.  A  myriad  laws  gov 
erned  all  these  things  and  determined  conduct;  yet 
he  did  not  know  the  speech  of  the  gods,  nor  was  there 
any  way  for  him  to  learn  save  by  experience.  He 
obeyed  his  natural  impulses  until  they  ran  him 
counter  to  some  law.  When  this  had  been  done  a 


THE  GOD'S  DOMAIN  297 

few  times,  he  learned  the  law  and  after  that  observed 
it. 

But  most  potent  in  his  education  were  the  cuff  of 
the  master's  hand,  the  censure  of  the  master's  voice. 
Because  of  White  Fang's  very  great  love,  a  cuff 
from  the  master  hurt  him  far  more  than  any  beat 
ing  Gray  Beaver  or  Beauty  Smith  had  ever  given 
him.  They  had  hurt  only  the  flesh  of  him;  beneath 
the  flesh  the  spirit  had  still  raged,  splendid  and 
invincible.  But  with  the  master  the  cuff  was  always 
too  light  to  hurt  the  flesh.  Yet  it  went  deeper.  It 
was  an  expression  of  the  master's  disapproval,  and 
White  Fang's  spirit  wilted  under  it. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  cuff  was  rarely  administered. 
The  master's  voice  was  sufficient.  By  it  White 
Fang  knew  whether  he  did  right  or  not.  By  it  he 
trimmed  his  conduct  and  adjusted  his  actions.  It 
was  the  compass  by  which  he  steered  and  learned  to 
chart  the  manners  of  a  new  land  and  life. 

In  the  Northland,  the  only  domesticated  animal 
was  the  dog.  All  other  animals  lived  in  the  Wild, 
and  were,  when  not  too  formidable,  lawful  spoil  for 
any  dogs.  All  his  days  White  Fang  had  foraged 
among  the  live  things  for  food.  It  did  not  enter  his 
head  that  in  the  Southland  it  was  otherwise.  But 
this  he  was  to  learn  early  in  his  residence  in  Santa 
Clara  Valley.  Sauntering  around  the  corner  of  the 
house  in  the  early  morning,  he  came  upon  a  chicken 


298  WHITE  FANG 

that  had  escaped  from  the  chicken-yard.  White 
Fang's  natural  impulse  was  to  eat  it.  A  couple  of 
bounds,  a  flash  of  teeth  and  a  frightened  squawk, 
and  he  had  scooped  in  the  adventurous  fowl.  It  was 
farmbred  and  fat  and  tender;  and  White  Fang 
licked  his  chops  and  decided  that  such  fare  was  good. 

Later  in  the  day,  he  chanced  upon  another  stray 
chicken  near  the  stables.  One  of  the  grooms  ran  to 
the  rescue.  He  did  not  know  White  Fang's  breed, 
so  for  weapon  he  took  a  light  buggy-whip.  At  the 
first  cut  of  the  whip,  White  Fang  left  the  chicken  for 
the  man.  A  club  might  have  stopped  White  Fang, 
but  not  a  whip.  Silently,  without  flinching,  he  took 
a  second  cut  in  his  forward  rush,  and  as  he  leaped 
for  the  throat  the  groom  cried  out,  "My  Grod!"  and 
staggered  backward.  He  dropped  the  whip  and 
shielded  his  throat  with  his  arms.  In  consequence, 
his  forearm  was  ripped  open  to  the  bone. 

The  man  was  badly  frightened.  It  was  not  so 
much  White  Fang's  ferocity  as  it  was  his  silence 
that  unnerved  the  groom.  Still  protecting  his 
throat  and  face  with  his  torn  and  bleeding  arm,  he 
tried  to  retreat  to  the  barn.  And  it  would  have 
gone  hard  with  him  had  not  Collie  appeared  on  the 
scene.  As  she  had  saved  Dick's  life,  she  now  saved 
the  groom's.  She  rushed  upon  White  Fang  in 
frenzied  wrath.  She  had  been  right.  She  had 
known  better  than  the  blundering  gods.  All  her  sus- 


THE  GOD'S  DOMAIN  299 

picions  were  justified.     Here  was  the  ancient  ma 
rauder  up  to  his  old  tricks  again. 

The  groom  escaped  into  the  stables,  and  White 
Fang  backed  away  before  Collie's  wicked  teeth,  or 
presented  his  shoulder  to  them  and  circled  round 
and  round.  But  Collie  did  not  give  over,  as  was  her 
wont,  after  a  decent  interval  of  chastisement.  On 
the  contrary,  she  grew  more  excited  and  angry  every 
moment,  until,  in  the  end,  White  Pang  flung  dignity 
to  the  winds  and  frankly  fled  away  from  her  across 
the  fields. 

'  *  He  11  learn  to  leave  chickens  alone, ' '  the  master 
said.     "But  I  can't  give  him  the  lesson  until  I  catch _ 
him  in  the  act." 

Two  nights  later  came  the  act,  but  on  a  more  gen 
erous  scale  than  the  master  had  anticipated.  White 
Fang  had  observed  closely  the  chicken-yards  and  the  $>* 
habits  of  the  chickens.  In  the  night-time,  after  they 
had  gone  to  roost,  he  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  pile  of 
newly  hauled  lumber.  From  there  he  gained  the 
roof  of  a  chicken-house,  passed  over  the  ridgepole 
and  dropped  to  the  ground  inside.  A  moment  later 
he  was  inside  the  house,  and  the  slaughter  began. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  master  came  out  on  to 
the  porch,  fifty  white  Leghorn  hens,  laid  out  in  a 
row  by  the  groom,  greeted  his  eyes.  He  whistled 
to  himself,  softly,  first  with  surprise,  and  then,  at 
the  end,  with  admiration.  His  eyes  were  likewise 


300  WHITE 

greeted  by  White  Fang,  but  about  the  latter  there 
were  no  signs  of  shame  nor  guilt.  He  carried  him 
self  with  pride,  as  though,  forsooth,  he  had  achieved 
a  deed  praiseworthy  and  meritorious.  There  was 
about  him  no  consciousness  of  sin.  The  master's 
lips  tightened  as  he  faced  the  disagreeable  task. 
Then  he  talked  harshly  to  the  unwitting  culprit,  and 
in  his  voice  there  was  nothing  but  godlike  wrath. 
Also,  he  held  White  Fang's  nose  down  to  the  slain 
hens,  and  at  the  same  time  cuffed  him  soundly. 

White  Fang  never  raided  a  chicken-roost  again. 
It  was  against  the  law,  and  he  had  learned  it.  Then 
the  master  took  him  into  the  chicken-yards.  White 
Fang's  natural  impulse,  when  he  saw  the  live  food 
fluttering  about  him  and  under  his  very  nose,  was 
to  spring  upon  it.  He  obeyed  the  impulse,  but  was 
checked  by  the  master's  voice.  They  continued  in 
the  yards  for  half  an  hour.  Time  and  again  the 
impulse  surged  over  White  Fang,  and  each  time,  as 
he  yielded  to  it,  he  was  checked  by  the  master's 
voice.  Thus  it  was  he  learned  the  law,  and  ere  he 
left  the  domain  of  the  chickens,  he  had  learned  to 
ignore  their  existence. 

"You  can  never  cure  a  chicken-killer."  Judge 
Scott  shook  his  head  sadly  at  the  luncheon  table, 
when  his  son  narrated  the  lesson  he  had  given  White 
Fang.  "Once  they've  got  the  habit  and  the  taste 
of  blood  ..."  Again  he  shook  his  head  sadly. 


THE  GOD'S  DOMAIN  301 

But  Weedon  Scott  did  not  agree  with  his  father. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  challenged  finally. 
*  '  I  '11  lock  White  Fang  in  with  the  chickens  all  after 
noon." 

"But  think  of  the  chickens,"  objected  the  Judge. 

"And  furthermore,"  the  son  went  on,  "for  every 
chicken  he  kills,  I'll  pay  you  one  dollar  gold  coin  of 
the  realm." 

"But  you  should  penalize  father,  too,"  interposed 
Beth. 

Her  sister  seconded  her,  and  a  chorus  of  approval 
arose  from  around  the  table.  Judge  Scott  nodded 
his  head  in  agreement. 

"All  right."  Weedon  Scott  pondered  for  a  mo 
ment.  "And  if,  at  the  end  of  the  afternoon,  White 
Fang  hasn't  harmed  a  chicken,  for  every  ten  min 
utes  of  the  time  he  has  spent  in  the  yard,  you  will 
have  to  say  to  him,  gravely  and  with  deliberation, 
just  as  if  you  were  sitting  on  the  bench  and  solemnly 
passing  judgment,  '  White  Fang,  you  are  smarter 
than  I  thought.'  " 

From  hidden  points  of  vantage  the  family  watched 
the  performance.  But  it  was  a  fizzle.  Locked  in 
the  yard  and  there  deserted  by  the  master,  White 
Fang  lay  down  and  went  to  sleep.  Once  he  got  up 
and  walked  over  to  the  trough  for  a  drink  of  water. 
The  chickens  he  calmly  ignored.  So  far  as  he  was 
concerned  thev  did  not  exist.  At  four  o'clock  he 


302  WHITE  FANG 

executed  a  running  jump,  gained  the  roof  of  the 
chicken  house  and  leaped  to  the  ground  outside, 
whence  he  sauntered  gravely  to  the  house.  He  had 
learned  the  law.  And  on  the  porch,  before  the  de 
lighted  family,  Judge  Scott,  face  to  face  with  White 
Fang,  said  slowly  and  solemnly,  sixteen  times, 
" White  Fang,  you  are  smarter  than  I  thought/' 

But  it  was  the  multiplicity  of  laws  that  befuddled 
White  Fang  and  often  brought  him  into  disgrace. 
He  had  to  learn  that  he  must  not  touch  the  chickens 
that  belonged  to  other  gods.  Then  there  were  cats, 
and  rabbits,  and  turkeys ;  all  these  he  must  let  alone. 
In  fact,  when  he  had  but  partly  learned  the  law,  his 
impression  was  that  he  must  leave  all  live  things 
alone.  Out  in  the  back-pasture,  a  quail  could  flutter 
up  under  his  nose  unharmed.  All  tense  and  trem 
bling  with  eagerness  and  desire,  he  mastered  his  in 
stinct  and  stood  still.  He  was  obeying  the  will  of 
the  gods. 

And  then,  one  day,  again  out  in  the  back-pasture, 
he  saw  Dick  start  a  jackrabbit  and  run  it.  The 
master  himself  was  looking  on  and  did  not  interfere. 
Nay,  he  encouraged  White  Fang  to  join  in  the  chase. 
And  thus  he  learned  that  there  was  no  taboo  on  jack- 
rabbits.  In  the  end  he  worked  out  the  complete  law. 
Between  him  and  all  domestic  animals  there  must  be 
no  hostilities.  If  not  amity,  at  least  neutrality  must 
obtain.  But  the  other  animals — the  squirrels,  and 


THE  GOD'S  DOMAIN  303 

quail,  and  cottontails,  were  creatures  of  the  Wild 
who  had  never  yielded  allegiance  to  man.  They 
were  the  lawful  prey  of  any  dog.  It  was  only  the 
tame  that  the  gods  protected,  and  between  the  tame 
deadly  strife  was  not  permitted.  The  gods  held  the 
power  of  life  and  death  over  their  subjects,  and  the 
gods  were  jealous  of  their  power. 

Life  was  complex  in  the  Santa  Clara  Valley  after 
the  simplicities  of  the  Northland.  And  the  chief 
thing  demanded  by  these  intricacies  of  civiliza 
tion  was  control,  restraint— a  poise  of  self  that  was 
as  delicate  a.a  fee  fluttering  of  gossamer  wings  and 
at  the  same  time  as  rigid  as  steel.  Life  had  a  thou 
sand  faces,  and  White  Fang  found  he  must  meet 
them  all — thus,  when  he  went  to  town,  in  to  San  Jose 
running  behind  the  carriage  or  loafing  about  the 
streets  when  the  carriage  stopped.  Life  flowed  past 
him,  deep  and  wide  and  varied,  continually  imping 
ing  upon  his  senses,  demanding  of  him  instant  and 
endless  adjustments  and  correspondences,  and  com 
pelling  him,  almost  always,  to  suppress  his  natural 
impulses. 

There  were  butcher-shops  where  meat  hung  within 
reach.  This  meat  he  must  not  touch.  There  were 
cats  at  the  houses  the  master  visited  that  must  be 
let  alone.  And  there  were  dogs  everywhere  that 
snarled  at  him  and  that  he  must  not  attack.  And 
then,  on  the  crowded  sidewalks,  there  were  persons 


304  WHITE  FANG 

innumerable  whose  attention  he  attracted.  They 
would  stop  and  look  at  him,  point  him  out  to  one  an 
other,  examine  him,  talk  to  him,  and,  worst  of  all, 
pat  him.  And  these  perilous  contacts  from  all  these 
strange  hands  he  must  endure.  Yet  this  endurance 
he  achieved.  Furthermore  he  got  over  being  awk 
ward  and  self-conscious.  In  a  lofty  way  he  received 
the  attentions  of  the  multitudes  of  strange  gods. 
With  condescension  he  accepted  their  condescension. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  was  something  about  him 
that  prevented  great  familiarity.  They  patted  him 
on  the  head  and  passed  on,  contented  and  pleased 
with  their  own  daring. 

But  it  was  not  all  easy  for  White  Fang.  Run 
ning  behind  the  carriage  in  the  outskirts  of  San  Jose, 
he  encountered  certain  small  boys  who  made  a  prac 
tice  of  flinging  stones  at  him.  Yet  he  knew  that  it 
was  not  permitted  him  to  pursue  and  drag  them 
down.  Here  he  was  compelled  to  violate  his  instinct 
of  self-preservation,  and  violate  it  he  did,  for  he  was 
becoming  tame  and  qualifying  himself  for  civiliza 
tion. 

Nevertheless,  White  Fang  was  not  quite  satisfied 
with  the  arrangement.  He  had  no  abstract  ideas 
about  justice  and  fair  play.  But  there  is  a  certain 
sense  of  equity  that  resides  in  life,  and  it  was  this 
sense  in  him  that  resented  the  unfairness  of  his 


THE  GOD'S  DOMAIN  305 

being  permitted  no  defence  against  the  stone-throw 
ers.  He  forgot  that  in  the  covenant  entered  into 
between  him  and  the  gods  they  were  pledged  to  care 
for  him  and  defend  him.  But  one  day  the  master 
sprang  from  the  carriage,  whip  in  hand,  and  gave 
the  stone-throwers  a  thrashing.  After  that  they 
threw  stones  no  more,  and  White  Fang  understood 
and  was  satisfied. 

One  other  experience  of  similar  nature  was  his. 
On  the  way  to  town,  hanging  around  the  saloon  at 
the  cross-roads,  were  three  dogs  that  made  a  prac 
tice  of  rushing  out  upon  him  when  he  went  by. 
Knowing  his  deadly  method  of  fighting,  the  master 
had  never  ceased  impressing  upon  White  Fang  the 
law  that  he  must  not  fight.  As  a  result,  having 
learned  the  lesson  well,  White  Fang  was  hard  put 
whenever  he  passed  the  cross-roads  saloon.  After 
the  first  rush,  each  time,  his  snarl  kept  the  three 
dogs  at  a  distance,  but  they  trailed  along  behind, 
yelping  and  bickering  and  insulting  him.  This  en 
dured  for  some  time.  The  men  at  the  saloon  even 
urged  the  dogs  on  to  attack  White  Fang.  One  day 
they  openly  sicked  the  dogs  on  him.  The  master 
stopped  the  carriage. 

"Go  to  it,"  he  said  to  White  Fang. 

But  White  Fang  could  not  believe.  He  looked  at 
the  master,  and  he  looked  at  the  dogs.  Then  he 


306  WHITE  FANG 

looked  back  eagerly  and  questioningly  at  the  master. 

The  master  nodded  his  head.  "Go  to  them,  old 
fellow.  Eat  them  up." 

White  Fang  no  longer  hesitated.  He  turned  and 
leaped  silently  among  his  enemies.  All  three  faced 
him.  There  was  a  great  snarling  and  growling,  a 
clashing  of  teeth  and  a  flurry  of  bodies.  The  dust 
of  the  road  arose  in  a  cloud  and  screened  the  battle. 
But  at  the  end  of  several  minutes  two  dogs  were 
struggling  in  the  dirt  and  the  third  was  in  full  flight. 
He  leaped  a  ditch,  went  through  a  rail  fence,  and 
fled  across  a  field.  White  Fang  followed,  sliding 
over  the  ground  in  wolf  fashion  and  with  wolf  speed, 
swiftly  and  without  noise,  and  in  the  centre  of  the 
field  he  dragged  down  and  slew  the  dog. 

With  this  triple  killing  his  main  troubles  with 
dogs  ceased.  The  word  went  up  and  down  the  val 
ley,  and  men  saw  to  it  that  their  dogs  did  not  molest 
the  Fighting  Wolf. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   CALL   OF    KIND 

THE  months  came  and  went.  There  was  plenty  of 
food  and  no  work  in  the  Southland,  and  White  Fang 
lived  fat  and  prosperous  and  happy.  Not  alone  was 
he  in  the  geographical  Southland,  for  he  was  in  the 
Southland  of  life.  Human  kindness  was  like  a  sun 
shining  upon  him,  and  he  flourished  like  a  flower 
planted  in  good  soil. 

And  yet  he  remained  somehow  different  from 
other  dogs.  He  knew  the  law  even  better  than  did 
the  dogs  that  had  known  no  other  life,  and  he  ob 
served  the  law  more  punctiliously;  but  still  there 
was  about  him  a  suggestion  of  lurking  ferocity,  as 
though  the  Wild  still  lingered  in  him  and  the  wolf 
in  him  merely  slept. 

He  never  chummed  with  other  dogs.  Lonely  he 
had  lived,  so  far  as  his  kind  was  concerned,  and 
lonely  he  would  continue  to  live.  In  his  puppyhood, 
under  the  persecution  of  Lip-lip  and  the  puppy-pack, 
and  in  his  fighting  days  with  Beauty  Smith,  he  had 
acquired  a  fixed  aversion  for  dogs.  The  natural 
course  of  his  life  had  been  diverted,  and,  recoiling 

from  his  kind,  he  had  clung  to  the  human. 

sor 


308  WHITE  FANG 

Besides,  all  Southland  dogs  looked  upon  him  with 
suspicion.  He  aroused  in  them  their  instinctive  fear 
of  the  Wild,  and  they  greeted  him  always  with  snarl 
and  growl  and  belligerent  hatred.  He,  on  the  other 
hand,  learned  that  it  was  not  necessary  to  use  his 
teeth  upon  them.  His  naked  fangs  and  writhing 
lips  were  uniformly  efficacious,  rarely  failing  to 
send  a  bellowing  on-rushing  dog  'back  on  its 
haunches. 

But  there  was  one  trial  in  White  Fang's  life — Col 
lie.  She  never  gave  him  a  moment's  peace.  She 
was  not  so  amenable  to  the  law  as  he.  She  defied 
all  efforts  of  the  master  to  make  her  become  friends 
with  White  Fang.  Ever  in  his  ears  was  sounding 
her  sharp  and  nervous  snarl.  She  had  never  for 
given  him  the  chicken-killing  episode,  and  persist 
ently  held  to  the  belief  that  his  intentions  were  bad. 
She  found  him  guilty  before  the  act,  and  treated  him 
accordingly.  She  became  a  pest  to  him,  like  a  po 
liceman  following  him  around  the  stable  and  the 
grounds,  and,  if  he  even  so  much  as  glanced  curi 
ously  at  a  pigeon  or  chicken,  bursting  into  an  outcry 
of  indignation  and  wrath.  His  favorite  way  of  ig 
noring  her  was  to  lie-  down,  with  his  head  on  his 
fore-paws,  and  pretend  sleep.  This  always  dum- 
founded  and  silenced  her. 

With  the  exception  of  Collie,  all  things  went  well 
with  White  Fang.  He  had  learned  control  and 


THE  CALL  OF  KIND  309 

poise,  and  he  knew  the  law.  He  achieved  a  staid- 
ness,  and  calmness,  and  philosophic  tolerance.  He 
no  longer  lived  in  a  hostile  environment.  Danger 
and  hurt  and  death  did  not  lurk  everywhere  about 
him.  In  time,  the  unknown,  as  a  thing  of  terror  and 
menace  ever  impending,  faded  away.  Life  was  soft 
and  easy.  It  flowed  along  smoothly,  and  neither 
fear  nor  foe  lurked  by  the  way. 

He  missed  the  snow  without  being  aware  of  it. 
"An  unduly  long  summer M  would  have  been  his 
thought  had  he  thought  about  it ;  as  it  was,  he  merely 
missed  the  snow  in  a  vague,  subconscious  way.  In 
the  same  fashion,  especially  in  the  heat  of  summer 
when  he  suffered  from  the  sun,  he  experienced 
faint  longings  for  the  Northland.  Their  only  ef 
fect  upon  him,  however,  was  to  make  him  uneasy 
and  restless  without  his  knowing  what  was  the 
matter. 

White  Fang  had  never  been  demonstrative.  Be 
yond  his  snuggling  and  the  throwing  of  a  crooning 
note  into  his  love-growl,  he  had  no  way  of  expressing 
his  love.  Yet  it  was  given  him  to  discover  a  third 
way.  He  had  always  been  susceptible  to  the 
laughter  of  the  gods.  Laughter  had  affected  him 
with  madness,  made  him  frantic  with  rage.  But  he 
did  not  have  it  in  him  to  be  angry  with  the  love-mas 
ter,  and  when  that  god  elected  to  laugh  at  him  in  a 
good-natured,  bantering  way,  he  was  nonplussed. 


310  WHITE  FANG 

He  could  feel  the  pricking  and  stinging  of  the  old 
anger  as  it  -strove  to  rise  up  in  him,  but  it  strove 
against  love.  He  could  not  be  angry ;  yet  he  had  to 
do  something.  At  first  he  was  dignified,  and  the 
master  laughed  the  harder.  Then  he  tried  to  be  more 
dignified,  and  the  master  laughed  harder  than  before. 
In  the  end,  the  master  laughed  him  out  of  his  dig 
nity.  His  jaws  slightly  parted,  his  lips  lifted  a 
little,  a  quizzical  expression  that  was  more  love 
than  humor  came  into  his  eyes.  He  had  learned  to 
laugh. 

Likewise  he  learned  to  romp  with  the  master,  to 
be  tumbled  down  and  rolled  over,  and  be  the  victim 
of  innumerable  rough  tricks.  In  return  he  feigned 
anger,  bristling  and  growling  ferociously,  and  clip 
ping  his  teeth  together  in  snaps  that  had  all  the 
seeming  of  deadly  intention.  But  he  never  forgot 
himself.  Those  snaps  were  always  delivered  on  the 
empty  air.  At  the  end  of  such  a  romp,  when  blow 
and  cuff  and  snap  and  snarl  were  fast  and  furious, 
they  would  break  off  suddenly  and  stand  several 
feet  apart,  glaring  at  each  other.  And  then,  just  as 
suddenly,  like  the  sun  rising  on  a  stormy  sea,  they 
would  begin  to  laugh.  This  would  always  culminate 
with  the  master's  arms  going  around  White  Fang's 
neck  and  shoulders  while  the  latter  crooned  and 
growled  his  love-song. 

But  nobody  else  ever  romped  with  White  Fang. 


THE  CALL  OF  KIND  311 

He  did  not  permit  it.  He  stood  on  his  dignity,  and 
when  they  attempted  it,  his  warning  snarl  and 
bristling  mane  were  anything  but  playful.  That  he 
allowed  the  master  these  liberties  was  no  reason  that 
he  should  be  a  common  dog,  loving  here  and  loving 
there,  everybody's  property  for  a  romp  and  good 
time.  He  loved  with  single  heart  and  refused  to 
cheapen  himself  or  his  love. 

The  master  went  out  on  horseback  a  great  deal, 
and  to  accompany  him  was  one  of  White  Fang's 
chief  duties  in  life.  In  the  Northland  he  had  evi 
denced  his  fealty  by  toiling  in  the  harness ;  but  there 
were  no  sleds  in  the  Southland,  nor  did  dogs  pack 
burdens  on  their  backs.  So  he  rendered  fealty  in  the 
now  way,  by  running  with  the  master's  horse.  The 
longest  day  never  played  White  Fang  out.  His  was 
the  gait  of  the  wolf,  smooth,  tireless,  and  effortless, 
and  at  the  end  of  fifty  miles  he  would  come  in  jaunt 
ily  ahead  of  the  horse. 

It  was  in  connection  with  the  riding,  that  White 
Fang  achieved  one  other  mode  of  expression — re 
markable  in  that  he  did  it  but  twice  in  all  his  life. 
The  first  time  occurred  when  the  master  was  trying 
to  teach  a  spirited  thoroughbred  the  method  of  open 
ing  and  closing  gates  without  the  rider's  dismount 
ing.  Time  and  again  and  many  times  he  ranged 
the  horse  up  to  the  gate  in  the  effort  to  close  it,  and 
each  time  the  horse  became  frightened  and  backed 


312  WHITE  FANG 

and  plunged  away.  It  grew  more  nervous  and  ex 
cited  every  moment.  When  it  reared,  the  master  put 
the  spurs  to  it  and  made  it  drop  its  fore-legs  back  to 
earth,  whereupon  it  would  begin  kicking  with  its 
hind-legs.  White  Fang  watched  the  performance 
with  increasing  anxiety  until  he  could  contain  him 
self  no  longer,  when  he  sprang  in  front  of  the  horse 
and  barked  savagely  and  warningly. 

Though  he  often  tried  to  bark  thereafter,  and  the 
master  encouraged  him,  he  succeeded  only  once, 
and  then  it  was  not  in  the  master's  presence.  A 
scamper  across  the  pasture,  a  jackrabbit  rising  sud 
denly  under  the  horse 's  feet,  a  violent  sheer,  a  stum 
ble,  a  fall  to  earth,  and  a  broken  leg  for  the  master 
were  the  cause  of  it.  White  Fang  sprang  in  a  rage 
at  the  throat  of  the  offending  horse,  but  was  checked 
by  the  master's  voice. 

"Home!  Go  home!"  the  master  commanded, 
when  he  had  ascertained  his  injury. 

White  Fang  was  disinclined  to  desert  him.  The 
master  thought  of  writing  a  note,  but  searched  his 
pockets  vainly  for  pencil  and  paper.  Again  he  com 
manded  White  Fang  to  go  home. 

The  latter  regarded  him  wistfully,  started  away, 
thc-»i  returned  and  whined  softly.  The  master 
talked  to  him  gently  but  seriously,  and  he  cocked 
his  ears  and  listened  with  painful  intentness. 

" That's  all  right,  old  fellow,  you  just  run  along 


THE  CALL  OF  KIND  313 

home,"  ran  the  talk.  "Go  on  home  and  tell  them 
what's  happened  to  me.  Home  with  you,  you  wolf. 
Get  along  home ! ' ' 

"White  Fang  knew  the  meaning  of  "home,"  and 
though  he  did  not  understand  the  remainder  of  the 
master's  language,  he  knew  it  was  his  will  that  he 
should  go  home.  He  turned  and  trotted  reluctantly 
away.  Then  he  stopped,  undecided,  and  looked  back 
over  his  shoulder. 

"Go  home!"  came  the  sharp  command,  and  this 
time  he  obeyed. 

The  family  was  on  the  porch,  taking  the  cool  of 
the  afternoon,  when  White  Fang  arrived.  He  came 
in  among  them,  panting,  covered  with  dust. 

"  Weedon's  back, "  Weedon  's  mother  announced. 

The  children  welcomed  White  Fang  with  glad 
cries  and  ran  to  meet  him.  He  avoided  them  and 
passed  down  the  porch,  but  they  cornered  him 
against  a  rocking-chair  and  the  railing.  He  growled 
and  tried  to  push  by  them.  Their  mother  looked 
apprehensively  in  their  direction. 

"I  confess,  he  makes  me  nervous  around  the  chil 
dren,"  she  said.  "I  have  a  dread  that  he  will  turn 
upon  them  unexpectedly  some  day." 

Growling  savagely,  White  Fang  sprang  out  of  the 
corner,  overturning  the  boy  and  the  girl.  The 
mother  called  them  to  her  and  comforted  tham,  tell 
ing  them  not  to  bother  White  Fang. 


314  WHITE  FANG 

"A  wolf  is  a  wolf,"  commented  Judge  Scott. 
" There  is  no  trusting  one." 

"But  he  is  not  all  wolf,"  interposed  Beth,  stand 
ing  for  her  brother  in  his  absence. 

"You  have  only  Weedon's  opinion  for  that,"  re 
joined  the  Judge.  "He  merely  surmises  that  there 
is  some  strain  of  dog  in  White  Fang;  but  as  he  will 
tell  you  himself,  he  knows  nothing  about  it.  As  for 
his  appearance — " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  White  Fang  stood 
before  him,  growling  fiercely. 

"Go  away!  Lie  down,  sir!"  Judge  Scott  com 
manded. 

White  Fang  turned  to  the  love-master's  wife. 
She  screamed  with  fright  as  he  seized  her  dress  in 
his  teeth  and  dragged  on  it  till  the  frail  fabric  tore 
away.  By  this  time  he  had  become  the  centre  of 
interest.  He  had  ceased  from  his  growling  and 
stood,  head  up,  looking  into  their  faces.  His  throat 
worked  spasmodically,  but  made  no  sound,  while  he 
struggled  with  all  his  body,  convulsed  with  the  effort 
to  rid  himself  of  the  incommunicable  something  that 
strained  for  utterance. 

"I  hope  he  is  not  going  mad,"  said  Weedon's 
mother.  '  '  I  told  Weedon  that  I  was  afraid  the  warm 
climate  would  not  agree  with  an  Arctic  animal. ' ' 

"He's  trying  to  speak,  I  do  believe,"  Beth  an 
nounced. 


THE  CALL  OF  KIND  315 

At  this  moment  speech  came  to  White  Fang,  rush 
ing  up  in  a  great  burst  of  barking. 

"Something  has  happened  to  Weedon,"  his  wife 
said  decisively. 

Thejr  were  all  on  their  feet,  now,  and  White  Fang 
ran  down  the  steps,  looking  back  for  them  to  follow. 
For  the  second  and  last  time  in  his  life  he  had  barked 
and  made  himself  understood. 

After  this  event  he  found  a  warmer  place  in  the 
hearts  of  the  Sierra  Vista  people,  and  even  the  groorn 
whose  arm  he  had  slashed  admitted  that  he  was  a 
wise  dog  even  if  he  was  a  wolf.  Judge  Scott  still 
held  to  the  same  opinion,  and  proved  it  to  every 
body's  dissatisfaction  by  measurements  and  descrip 
tions  taken  from  the  encyclopaedia  and  various  works 
on  natural  history. 

The  days  came  and  went,  streaming  their  un 
broken  sunshine  over  the  Santa  Clara  Valley.  But 
as  they  grew  shorter  and  White  Fang's  second 
winter  in  the  Southland  came  on,  he  made  a  strange 
discovery.  Collie's  teeth  were  no  longer  sharp. 
There  was  a  playfulness  about  her  nips  and  a  gentle 
ness  that  prevented  them  from  really  hurting  him. 
He  forgot  that  she  had  made  life  a  burden  to  him, 
and  when  she  disported  herself  around  him  he  re 
sponded  solemnly,  striving  to  be  playful  and  becom 
ing  no  more  than  ridiculous. 

One  day  she  led  him  off  on  a  long  chase  through 


316  WHITE  FANG 

the  back-pasture  and  into  the  woods.  It  was  the 
afternoon  that  the  master  was  to  ride,  and  White 
Fang  knew  it.  The  horse  stood  saddled  and  wait 
ing  at  the  door.  White  Fang  hesitated.  But  there 
was  that  in  him  deeper  than  all  the  law  he  had 
learned,  than  the  customs  that  had  moulded  him, 
than  his  love  for  the  master,  than  the  very  will  to 
live  of  himself ;  and  when,  in  the  moment  of  his  in 
decision,  Collie  nipped  him  and  scampered  off,  he 
turned  and  followed  after.  The  master  rode  alone 
that  day;  and  in  the  woods,  side  by  side,  White 
Fang  ran  with  Collie,  as  his  mother,  Kiche,  and  old 
One  Eye  had  run  long  years  before  in  the  silent 
Northland  forest. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   SLEEPING   WOLF 

IT  was  about  this  time  that  the  newspapers  were 
full  of  the  daring  escape  of  a  convict  from  San  Quen- 
tin  prison.  He  was  a  ferocious  man.  He  had  been 
ill-made  in  the  making.  He  had  not  been  born  right, 
and  he  had  not  been  helped  any  by  the  moulding  he 
had  received  at  the  hands  of  society.  The  hands  of 
society  are  harsh,  and  this  man  was  a  striking 
sample  of  its  handiwork.  He  was  a  beast — a  human 
beast,  it  is  true,  but  nevertheless  so  terrible  a  beast 
that  he  can  best  be  characterized  as  carnivorous. 

In  San  Quentin  prison  he  had  proved  incorrigible. 
Punishment  failed  to  break  his  spirit.  He  could  die 
dumb-mad  and  fighting  to  the  last,  but  he  could  not 
live  and  be  beaten.  The  more  fiercely  he  fought,  the 
more  harshly  society  handled  him,  and  the  only  ef 
fect  of  harshness  was  to  make  him  fiercer.  Strait- 
jackets,  starvation,  and  beatings  and  clubbings  were 
the  wrong  treatment  for  Jim  Hall;  but  it  was  the 
treatment  he  received.  It  was  the  treatment  he  had 
received  from  the  time  he  was  a  little  pulpy  boy  in 
a  San  Francisco  slum — soft  clay  in  the  hands  of 
society  and  ready  to  be  formed  into  something. 

3)* 


318  WHITE  FANG 

It  was  during  Jim  Hall 's  third  term  in  prison  that 
he  encountered  a  guard  that  was  almost  as  great  a 
beast  as  he.  The  guard  treated  him  unfairly,  lied 
about  him  to  the  warden,  lost  him  his  credits,  perse 
cuted  him.  The  difference  between  them  was  that 
the  guard  carried  a  bunch  of  keys  and  a  revolver. 
Jim  Hall  had  only  his  naked  hands  and  his  teeth. 
But  he  sprang  upon  the  guard  one  day  and  used 
his  teeth  on  the  other's  throat  just  like  any  jungle 
animal. 

After  this,  Jim  Hall  went  to  live  in  the  incorrigible 
cell.  He  lived  there  three  years.  The  cell  was  of 
iron,  the  floor,  the  walls,  the  roof.  He  never  left 
this  cell.  He  never  saw  the  sky  nor  the  sunshine. 
Day  was  a  twilight  and  night  was  a  black  silence. 
He  was  in  an  iron  tomb,  buried  alive.  He  saw  no 
human  face,  spoke  to  no  human  thing.  When  his 
food  was  shoved  in  to  him,  he  growled  like  a  wild 
animal.  He  hated  all  things.  For  days  and  nights 
he  bellowed  his  rage  at  the  universe.  For  weeks  and 
months  he  never  made  a  sound,  in  the  black  silence 
eating  his  very  soul.  He  was  a  man  and  a  mon 
strosity,  as  fearful  a  thing  of  fear  as  ever  gibbered 
in  the  visions  of  a  maddened  brain. 

And  then,  one  night,  he  escaped.  The  warden 
said  it  was  impossible,  but  nevertheless  the  cell  was 
empty,  and  half  in  half  out  of  it  lay  the  body  of  a 
dead  guard.  Two  other  dead  guards  marked  his 


THE  SLEEPING  WOLF  319 

trail  through  the  prison  to  the  outer  walls,  and  he 
had  killed  with  his  hands  to  avoid  noise. 

He  was  armed  with  the  weapons  of  the  slain 
guards — a  live  arsenal  that  fled  through  the  hills 
pursued  by  the  organized  might  of  society.  A  heavy 
price  of  gold  was  upon  his  head.  Avaricious  fann 
ers  hunted  him  with  shot-guns.  His  blood  might""""] 
pay  off  a  mortgage  or  send  a  son  to  college.  Public-  J 
spirited  citizens  took  down  their  rifles  and  went  out 
after  him.  A  pack  of  bloodhounds  followed  the  way 
of  his  bleeding  feet.  And  the  sleuth-hounds  of  the 
law,  the  paid  fighting  animals  of  society,  with  tele 
phone,  and  telegraph,  and  special  train,  clung  to  his 
trail  night  and  day. 

Sometimes  they  came  upon  him,  and  men  faced 
him  like  heroes,  or  stampeded  through  barb-wire 
fences  to  the  delight  of  the  commonwealth  reading 
the  account  at  the  breakfast  table.  It  was  after 
such  encounters  that  the  dead  and  wounded  were 
carted  back  to  the  towns,  and  their  places  filled  by 
men  eager  for  the  man-hunt. 

And  then  Jim  Hall  disappeared.  The  blood 
hounds  vainly  quested  on  the  lost  trail.  Inoffensive 
ranchers  in  remote  valleys  were  held  up  by  armed 
men  and  compelled  to  identify  themselves;  while 
the  remains  of  Jim  Hall  were  discovered  on  a  dozen 
mountainsides  by  greedy  claimants  for  blood-money. 

In  the  meantime  the  newspapers  were  read  at 


320  WHITE  FANG 

Sierra  Vista,  not  so  much  with  interest  as  with 
anxiety.  The  women  were  afraid.  Judge  Scott 
pooh-poohed  and  laughed,  but  not  with  reason,  for  it 
was  in  his  last  days  on  the  bench  that  Jim  Hall  had 
stood  before  him  and  received  sentence.  And  in 
open  courtroom,  before  all  men,  Jim  Hall  had  pro 
claimed  that  the  day  would  come  when  he  would 
wreak  vengeance  on  the  judge  that  sentenced  him. 

For  once,  Jim  Hall  was  right.  He  was  innocent 
of  the  crime  for  which  he  was  sentenced.  It  was  a 
case,  in  the  parlance  of  thieves  and  police,  of  "rail 
roading."  Jim  Hall  was  being  "railroaded"  to 
prison  for  a  crime  he  had  not  committed.  Because 
of  the  two  prior  convictions  against  him,  Judge 
Scott  imposed  upon  him  a  sentence  of  fifty  years. 

Judge  Scott  did  not  know  all  things,  and  he  did 
not  know  that  he  was  party  to  a  police  conspiracy, 
that  the  evidence  was  hatched  and  perjured,  that 
Jim  Hall  was  guiltless  of  the  crime  charged.  And 
Jim  Hall,  on  the  other  hand,  did  not  know  that  Judge 
Scott  was  merely  ignorant.  Jim  Hall  believed  that 
the  judge  knew  all  about  it  and  was  hand  in  glove 
with  the  police  in  the  perpetration  of  the  monstrous 
injustice.  So  it  was,  when  the  doom  of  fifty  years 
of  living  death  was  uttered  by  Judge  Scott,  that  Jim 
Hall,  hating  all  things  in  the  society  that  misused 
him,  rose  up  and  raged  in  the  courtroom  until 
dragged  down  by  half  a  dozen  of  his  blue-coated 


THE  SLEEPING  WOLF  321 

enemies.  To  him,  Judge  Scott  was  the  keystone  in 
the  arch  of  injustice,  and  upon  Judge  Scott  he 
emptied  the  vials  of  his  wrath  and  hurled  the  threats 
of  his  revenge  yet  to  come.  Then  Jim  Hall  went  to 
his  living  death  .  .  .  and  escaped. 

Of  all  this  White  Fang  knew  nothing.  But  be 
tween  him  and  Alice,  the  master 's  wife,  there  existed 
a  secret.  Each  night,  after  Sierra  Vista  had  gone 
to  bed,  she  arose  and  let  in  White  Fang  to  sleep  in 
the  big  hall.  Now  White  Fang  was  not  a  house-dog, 
nor  was  he  permitted  to  sleep  in  the  house ;  so  each 
morning,  early,  she  slipped  down  and  let  him  out 
before  the  family  was  awake. 

On  one  such  night,  while  all  the  house  slept,  White 
Fang  awoke  and  lay  very  quietly.  And  very  quietly 
he  smelled  the  air  and  read  the  message  it  bore  of  a 
strange  god's  presence.  And  to  his  ears  came 
sounds  of  the  strange  god's  movements.  White 
Fang  burst  into  no  furious  outcry.  It  was  not  his 
way.  The  strange  god  walked  softly,  but  more 
softly  walked  White  Fang,  for  he  had  no  clothes  to 
rub  against  the  flesh  of  his  body.  He  followed 
silently.  In  the  Wild  he  had  hunted  live  meat  that 
was  infinitely  timid,  and  he  knew  the  advantage  of 
surprise. 

The  strange  god  paused  at  the  foot  of  the  great 
staircase  and  listened,  and  White  Fang  was  as  dead, 
so  without  movement  was  he  as  he  watched  and 


WHITE  FANG 

waited.  Up  that  staircase  the  way  led  to  the  love- 
master  and  to  the  love-mas ter's  dearest  possessions. 
White  Fang  bristled,  but  waited.  The  strange  god 's 
foot  lifted.  He  was  beginning  the  ascent. 

Then  it  was  that  White  Fang  struck.  He  gave 
no  warning,  with  no  snarl  anticipated  his  own  action. 
Into  the  air  he  lifted  his  body  in  the  spring  that 
landed  him  on  the  strange  god's  back.  White  Fang 
clung  with  his  fore-paws  to  the  man's  shoulders,  at 
the  same  time  burying  his  fangs  into  the  back  of 
the  man's  neck.  He  clung  on  for  a  moment,  long 
enough  to  drag  the  god  over  backward.  Together 
they  crashed  to  the  floor.  White  Fang  leaped  clear, 
and,  as  the  man  struggled  to  rise,  was  in  again  with 
the  slashing  fangs. 

Sierra  Vista  awoke  in  alarm.  The  noise  from 
downstairs  was  as  that  of  a  score  of  battling  fiends. 
There  were  revolver  shots.  A  man's  voice 
screamed  once  in  horror  and  anguish.  There  was  a 
great  snarling  and  growling,  and  over  all  arose  a 
smashing  and  crashing  of  furniture  and  glass. 

But  almost  as  quickly  as  it  had  arisen,  the  com 
motion  died  away.  The  struggle  had  not  lasted 
more  than  three  minutes.  The  frightened  household 
clustered  at  the  top  of  the  stairway.  From  below, 
as  from  out  an  abyss  of  blackness,  came  up  a  gur 
gling  sound,  as  of  air  bubbling  through  water. 


THE  SLEEPING  WOLF  323 

Sometimes  this  gurgle  became  sibilant,  almost  a 
whistle.  But  this,  too,  quickly  died  down  and  ceased. 
Then  naught  came  up  out  of  the  blackness  save  a 
heavy  panting  of  some  creature  struggling  sorely 
for  air. 

Weedon  Scott  pressed  a  button,  and  the  staircase 
and  downstairs  hall  were  flooded  with  light.  Then 
he  and  Judge  Scott,  revolvers  in  hand,  cautiously 
descended.  There  was  no  need  for  this  caution. 
White  Fang  had  done  his  work.  In  the  midst  of  the 
wreckage  of  overthrown  and  smashed  furniture, 
partly  on  his  side,  his  face  hidden  by  an  arm,  lay  a 
man.  Weedon  Scott  bent  over,  removed  the  arm, 
and  turned  the  man's  face  upward.  A  gaping 
throat  explained  the  manner  of  his  death. 

i  i  Jim  Hall, ' '  said  Judge  Scott,  and  father  and  son 
looked  significantly  at  each  other. 

Then  they  turned  to  White  Fang.  He,  too,  was 
lying  on  his  side.  His  eyes  were  closed,  but  the 
lids  slightly  lifted  in  an  effort  to  look  at  them  as 
they  bent  over  him,  and  the  tail  was  perceptibly 
agitated  in  a  vain  effort  to  wag.  Weedon  Scott 
patted  him,  and  his  throat  rumbled  an  acknowledg 
ing  growl.  But  it  was  a  weak  growl  at  best,  and  it 
quickly  ceased.  His  eyelids  drooped  and  went  shut, 
and  his  whole  body  seemed  to  relax  and  flatten  out 
upon  the  floor. 


324  WHITE  FANG 

"He's  all  in,  poor  devil,"  muttered  the  master. 

"We'll  see  about  that,"  asserted  the  Judge,  as  he 
started  for  the  telephone. 

"Frankly,  he  has  one  chance  in  a  thousand,"  an 
nounced  the  surgeon,  after  he  had  worked  an  hour 
and  a  half  on  White  Fang. 

Dawn  was  breaking  through  the  windows  and  dim 
ming  the  electric  lights.  With  the  exception  of  the 
children,  the  whole  family  was  gathered  about  the 
surgeon  to  hear  his  verdict. 

"One  broken  hind-leg,"  he  went  on.  "Three 
broken  ribs,  one  at  least  of  which  has  pierced  the 
lungs.  He  has  lost  nearly  all  the  blood  in  his  body. 
There  is  a  large  likelihood  of  internal  injuries.  He 
must  have  been  jumped  upon.  To  say  nothing  of 
three  bullet  holes  clear  through  him.  One  chance 
in  a  thousand  is  really  optimistic.  He  hasn't  a 
chance  in  ten  thousand. ' ' 

"But  he  mustn't  lose  any  chance  that  might  be 
of  help  to  him,"  Judge  Scott  exclaimed.  "Never 
mind  expense.  Put  him  under  the  X-ray — anything. 
Weedon,  telegraph  at  once  to  San  Francisco  for  Doc 
tor  Nichols.  No  reflection  on  you,  doctor,  you  un 
derstand  ;  but  he  must  have  the  advantage  of  every 
chance." 

The  surgeon  smiled  indulgently.  "Of  course  I 
understand.  He  deserves  all  that  can  be  done  for 
him.  He  must  be  nursed  as  you  would  nurse  a 


THE  SLEEPING  WOLF  325 

human  being,  a  sick  child.  And  don't  forget  what 
I  told  you  about  temperature.  I'll  be  back  at  ten 
o'clock  again." 

White  Fang  received  the  nursing.  Judge  Scott's 
suggestion  of  a  trained  nurse  was  indignantly  clam 
ored  down  by  the  girls,  who  themselves  undertook 
the  task.  And  White  Fang  won  out  on  the  one 
chance  in  ten  thousand  denied  him  by  the  surgeon. 

The  latter  was  not  to  be  censured  for  his  misjudg- 
ment.  All  his  life  he  had  tended  and  operated  on 
the  soft  humans  of  civilization,  who  lived  sheltered 
lives  and  had  descended  out  of  many  sheltered  gen 
erations.  Compared  with  White  Fang,  they  were 
frail  and  flabby,  and  clutched  life  without  any 
strength  in  their  grip.  White  Fang  had  come 
straight  from  the  Wild,  where  the  weak  perish  early 
and  shelter  is  vouchsafed  to  none.  In  neither  his 
father  nor  his  mother  was  there  any  weakness,  nor 
in  the  generations  before  them.  A  constitution  of 
iron  and  the  vitality  of  the  Wild  were  White  Fang 's 
inheritance,  and  he  clung  to  life,  the  whole  of  him 
and  every  part  of  him,  in  spirit  and  in  flesh,  with  the 
tenacity  that  of  old  belonged  to  all  creatures. 

Bound  down  a  prisoner,  denied  even  movement  by 
the  plaster  casts  and  bandages,  White  Fang  lingered 
out  the  weeks.  He  slept  long  hours  and  dreamed 
much,  and  through  his  mind  passed  an  unending 
pageant  of  Northland  visions.  All  the  ghosts  of  the 


326  WHITE  FANG 

past  arose  and  were  with  him.  Once  again  he  lived 
in  the  lair  with  Kiche,  crept  trembling  to  the  knees 
of  Gray  Beaver  to  tender  his  allegiance,  ran  for  his 
life  before  Lip-lip  and  all  the  howling  bedlam  of  the 
puppy-pack. 

He  ran  again  through  the  silence,  hunting  his  liv 
ing  food  through  the  months  of  famine;  and  again 
he  ran  at  the  head  of  the  team,  the  gut-whips  of  Mit- 
sah  and  Gray  Beaver  snapping  behind,  their  voices 
crying  "Baa!  Baa!"  when  they  came  to  a  narrow 
passage  and  the  team  closed  together  like  a  fan  to 
go  through.  He  lived  again  all  his  days  with 
Beauty  Smith  and  the  fights  he  had  fought.  At 
such  times  he  whimpered  and  snarled  in  his  sleep, 
and  they  that  looked  on  said  that  his  dreams  were 
bad. 

But  there  was  one  particular  nightmare  from 
which  he  suffered — the  clanking,  clanging  monsters 
of  electric  cars  that  were  to  him  colossal  screaming 
lynxes.  He  would  lie  in  a  screen  of  bushes,  watch 
ing  for  a  squirrel  to  venture  far  enough  out  on  the 
ground  from  its  tree-refuge.  Then,  when  he  sprang 
out  upon  it,  it  would  transform  itself  into  an  electric 
car,  menacing  and  terrible,  towering  over  him  like  a 
mountain,  screaming-  and  clanging  and  spitting  fire 
at  him.  It  was  the  same  when  he  challenged  the 
hawk  down  out  of  the  sky.  Down  out  of  the  blue  it 


THE  SLEEPING  WOLF  327 

would  rush,  as  it  dropped  upon  him  changing  itself 
into  the  ubiquitous  electric  car.  Or  again,  he  would 
be  in  the  pen  of  Beauty  Smith.  Outside  the  pen, 
men  would  be  gathering,  and  he  knew  that  a  fight 
was  on.  He  watched  the  door  for  his  antagonist  to 
enter.  The  door  would  open,  and  thrust  in  upon 
him  would  come  the  awful  electric  car.  A  thousand 
times  this  occurred,  and  each  time  the  terror  it  in 
spired  was  as  vivid  and  great  as  ever. 

Then  came  the  day  when  the  last  bandage  and  the 
last  plaster  cast  were  taken  off.  It  was  a  gala  day. 
All  Sierra  Vista  was  gathered  around.  The  master 
rubbed  his  ears,  and  he  crooned  his  love-growl. 
The  master's  wife  called  him  the  " Blessed  Wolf," 
which  name  was  taken  up  with  acclaim  and  all  the 
women  called  him  the  Blessed  Wolf. 

He  tried  to  rise  to  his  feet,  and  after  several 
attempts  fell  down  from  weakness.  He  had  lain 
so  long  that  his  muscles  had  lost  their  cunning,  and 
all  the  strength  had  gone  out  of  them.  He  felt  a 
little  shame  because  of  his  weakness,  as  though,  for 
sooth,  he  were  failing  the  gods  in  the  service  he  owed 
them.  Because  of  this  he  made  heroic  efforts  to 
arise,  and  at  last  he  stood  on  his  four  legs,  tottering 
and  swaying  back  and  forth. 

"The  Blessed  Wolf !"  chorused  the  women. 

Judge  Scott  surveyed  them  triumphantly. 


328  WHITE  FAJSG 

"Out  of  your  own  mouths  be  it,"  he  said.  "Just 
as  I  contended  right  along.  No  mere  dog  could  have 
done  what  he  did.  He 's  a  wolf. ' ' 

"A  Blessed  Wolf,"  amended  the  Judge's  wife. 

"Yes,  Blessed  Wolf,"  agreed  the  Judge.  "And 
henceforth  that  shall  be  my  name  for  him. ' ' 

"He'll  have  to  learn  to  walk  again,"  said  the  sur 
geon;  "so  he  might  as  well  start  in  right  now.  It 
won 't  hurt  him.  Take  him  outside. ' ' 

And  outside  he  went,  like  a  king,  with  all  Sierra 
Vista  about  him  and  tending  on  him.  He  was  very 
weak,  and  when  he  reached  the  lawn  he  lay  down 
and  rested  for  a  while. 

Then  the  procession  started  on,  little  spurts  of 
strength  coming  into  White  Fang's  muscles  as  he 
used  them  and  the  blood  began  to  surge  through 
them.  The  stables  were  reached,  and  there  in  the 
doorway  lay  Collie,  a  half-dozen  pudgy  puppies  play 
ing  about  her  in  the  sun. 

White  Fang  looked  on  with  a  wondering  eye. 
Collie  snarled  warningly  at  him,  and  he  was  careful 
to  keep  his  distance.  The  master  with  his  toe  helped 
one  sprawling  puppy  toward  him.  He  bristled  sus 
piciously,  but  the  master  warned  him  that  all  was 
well.  Collie,  clasped  in  the  arms  of  one  of  the 
women,  watched  him  jealously  and  with  a  snarl 
warned  him  that  all  was  not  well. 

The  puppy  sprawled  in  front  of  him.    He  cocked 


THE  SLEEPING  WOLF 

his  ears  and  watched  it  curiously.     Then 
touched,  and  he  felt  the  warm  little  tongue  o. 
puppy  on  his  jowl.    White  Fang's  tongue  went  01 
he  knew  not  why,  and  he  licked  the  puppy's  face. 

Hand-clapping  and  pleased  cries  from  the  gods 
greeted  the  performance.  He  was  surprised,  ano^ 
looked  at  them  in  a  puzzled  way.  Then  his  weak 
ness  asserted  itself,  and  he  lay  down,  his  ears  cocked, 
his  head  on  one  side,  as  he  watched  the  puppy.  The 
other  puppies  came  sprawling  toward  him,  to  Col 
lie  's  great  disgust ;  and  he  gravely  permitted  them  to 
clamher  and  tumble  over  him.  At  first,  amid  the 
applause  of  the  gods,  he  betrayed  a  trifle  of  his  old 
self-consciousness  and  awkwardness.  This  passed 
away  as  the  puppies7  antics  and  mauling  continued, 
and  he  lay  with  half -shut,  patient  eyes,  drowsing  in 
the  sun. 


THE  END 


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ItlTi 

ft(?f  unif  ")-•  IA4 

U!hlNOV^7l8| 

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